


common tongues

by diurno



Series: a brief inquiry into angel sightings [2]
Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Afterlife, Angel/Human Relationships, Domestic Bliss, Enemies to Friends to Lovers, Fluff, Heaven & Hell, Hurt/Comfort, I promise, Implied/Referenced Character Death, M/M, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, and they were roommates!, i'm saying enemy because they want to kill each other multiple times, so take it as you will
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-02
Updated: 2020-05-02
Packaged: 2021-03-02 01:41:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 32,890
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23957074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/diurno/pseuds/diurno
Summary: "This place," the man motions his hands around. "Is not the purgatory. The real purgatory is a library where we write ongoing human history into files, those of which God uses to judge where they fit based on their morality, life conditions and opportunities.""Well, are my reports good?" Donghyuck asks, resting a hand on the lawyer's knee, eyes round and hopeful.Mark stares back at him with no expression. "No."Alternatively: Donghyuck thought picking a fight with God would be the most inconvenient step to get to Heaven, but being rommates with angel Na Jaemin has risen to the challenge.
Relationships: Lee Donghyuck | Haechan/Na Jaemin
Series: a brief inquiry into angel sightings [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1775056
Comments: 32
Kudos: 146





	common tongues

**Author's Note:**

> jeno and renjun are tagged because jeno is the image of God and renjun is satan :^)  
> started writing it. had a breakdown. bon appetit! 
> 
> TW: graphic depictions of drowning, donghyuck "dies", jaemin is too cute here
> 
> [support black protesters and donate to the black lives matter movement!](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1WUJUAQs_vMDixJAWRMONwyvfdEcPvSFwX5_ExQhytDg/edit?usp=drivesdk)

" _At the trial of God, we will ask: why did you allow all this?  
And the answer will be an echo: why did you allow all this?” _**(Ilya Kaminsky.)**

_“I don’t think existence wants you to be serious. I have not seen a serious tree. I have not seen a serious bird. I have not seen a serious sunrise. I have not seen a serious starry night. It seems they are all laughing in their own ways, dancing in their own ways. We may not understand it, but there is a subtle feeling that the whole existence is a celebration.”_ **(Osho).**

" _In the dark times_

_Will there also be singing?_

_Yes, there will also be singing_

_About the dark times._ " **(Bertolt Brecht).**

“What about Hitler? Where is he now?”

Mark sighs, the sleeves of his neutral grey suit rolled up to his elbows as he leans over an equally grey suitcase, eyes falling closed in barely contained abhorrence. The roots of his hair are dark enough to mirror Donghyuck’s, but the rest of it matches the color palette of this entire place — it’s, unshockingly, grey. “Everyone asks about him. It’s so stupid. You _know_ he’s in Hell, so why would you ask?”

Donghyuck shrugs, tapping his formal shoes against the ground in boredom. “Because sometimes you want to make sure.” He turns to watch as a group of people walk in front of the bench they’re sitting in, all hushedly whispering and dressed in the same grey Mark has on. Their faces are but a blob of undefined mass, passing by so quickly no human could ever make anything out of them; Donghyuck is stricken by the vague feeling that he just saw a person, but it doesn’t linger long enough afterwards for it to be taken in consideration. “Hm… Okay, I’m going to try a more controversial one this time. Margaret Thatcher? Where is she?”

“Hell.” Mark rolls his eyes, growing clearly more annoyed at each second they pass in each other’s company.

Purgatory is the only place in the afterlife where time is relevant and measurable. Donghyuck learned that after reading one of the pamphlets back at the lobby, the letters flickering in and out of reality with the effort they took to translate themselves into each and every existing language, _technology a courtesy of Heaven_ engraved on the back of the paper. A lot of things in the afterlife behave the same, Donghyuck suspects — they all swirl and flick, not facing one single moment of staticity as they’re programmed to change on the blink of an eye to accommodate all shapes and forms of human differences.

“Is it because she was anti-communist?” he asks, gripping the edge of the bench with his fingers and watching as his knuckles fail to get paler, interestedly taking note that his body does not behave the same on the afterlife as it did when he was alive.

Mark scoffs. “I don’t know.”

“C’mon, you don’t know _anything!_ ” Donghyuck whines, settling back against the bench and feeling the uncomfortable press of stripes of wood against his back. “How do you expect to advocate for me if you don’t know fuck shit about anything, huh?”

The man pinches the bridge of his nose, a huge frown on his face announcing that he is fighting the urge to say something unpleasant. Donghyuck is about to go on with his argument when Mark beats him to it: “Can you not swear here?”

“Why? Is it forbidden?” he asks, starting to feel unquietness spread over him like wildfire. _Why is this taking so long?_ Donghyuck asks himself, but maybe it’s just the concept of time starting to turn foreign once again. It could’ve been just five minutes.

“Nothing is forbidden here,” Mark explains, his voice dragging out exhaustedly. “It doesn’t mean it won’t be frowned upon.”

Donghyuck makes a face. “And I care because...?”

“Because this is court and every external influence matters on the final decision as to whether you’re going to Heaven or not,” the man says, shoulders slumped in annoyance. Donghyuck almost feels bad for him, but this is just the way everyone acts around here — they’re all tired, busy, eternally annoyed by minor inconveniences. In the grand scheme of things, Donghyuck is but a small stone in Mark’s shoe; one that he’ll be getting rid of soon enough.

“What if I refuse to go to Hell?” he once again asks, curiosity getting the best of him. Mark is supposed to answer those questions, being the purgatory agent that he is, and his generosity shouldn’t be only to the extent of Donghyuck’s nicety. If anything, he should be doing his job better; no matter how unpleasant or tedious it is.

At that, though, Mark frowns. “And go against God?”

“And go against God, yeah,” Donghyuck agrees easily.

“I don’t know,” the lawyer answers, staring down at his shoes with confusion seeping through his features. “I guess it wouldn’t be moral if God made you do something you didn’t want to do, would it?”

“I guess so,” he pointedly says, mirroring Mark’s gaze and casting his own downwards, to his shoes. They’re polished and shiny, but their fit is somewhat ill — Donghyuck wonders if it’s on purpose. “Wouldn’t be very morally superior of them, that’s for sure.”

“And free will is all this place is about,” Mark points out, squinting in thought. “Maybe it just hasn’t happened before. There’s no way to know. The Divine plan works in weird ways.”

“It does seem to.” Donghyuck nods, silence finding them not much longer afterwards.

A chunk more of people walk past them, but no face is recognizable, their features seemingly slipping from Donghyuck’s brain as if it were a wet slope, refusing to stick to his memory. There are no angels here, but neither there are devils — the mere existence of them implies a leaning towards good or bad, which means they’re not allowed in a neutral zone like the purgatory. Donghyuck also learned that from the pamphlet, which made him wonder what was it about Mark that got deemed as intrinsically neutral; neither good or bad, just indifferent. Was he a bad person with good intentions, back to when he was alive, or was he a good person with no vocation to it? What got Mark here, in this place?

When he voices those questions to him, the man shrugs uninterestedly. “I was given a choice,” he mentions offhandedly. “I was supposed to either get reborn or become a purgatory agent. I didn’t want to go through life again.”

Donghyuck hums, interested. “So everyone in the purgatory kind of did not want to live?”

The man thinks for a bit, but agrees not longer after. “Pretty much so. We all remember making the choice to stay dead, but what came before is blurry. I got my memories from life erased and the next day I was watching over your life, waiting patiently for you to die.”

Donghyuck makes a point out of ignoring that last sentence.

“What are my chances of turning into a purgatory agent?” he asks, curiously inspecting the possibility. This place isn’t all that obnoxious in itself, but it doesn’t have any redeeming qualities either — the aircon is a bit too cold for comfort, but it could be worse. The gourmet sandwiches in the vending machine are definitely overpriced, but they could not be there. All in all, it isn’t terrible; Donghyuck could pass eternity here. It would probably feel like the blink of an eye.

“None.” Mark picks at his teeth with a toothpick from his suit's breast pocket, not bothering to spare Donghyuck a glance. “You’ve done too much in your life. I’ve checked your files."

“My files?” Donghyuck frowns.

"This place," the man motions his hands around. "Is not the purgatory. The real purgatory is a library where we write ongoing human history into files, those of which God uses to judge where they fit based on their morality, life conditions and opportunities."

"Well, are my reports good?" he asks, resting a hand on the lawyer's knee, eyes round and hopeful.

Mark stares back at him with no expression. "No."

Donghyuck is about to fire back when his name is called from the courtroom, the huge wooden door nearing the bench they were sitting on being opened to show what seems to be a quite normal auditorium for his trial, rolls and rolls of empty chairs following his steps as he positions himself in front of the jury. The entire room is empty apart from one single man standing behind the podium, his glasses sitting atop of his nose in a quite handsome way as Mark settles beside Donghyuck, not even bothering to recognize the man's presence.

"Is that—" he whispers, leaning closer to the purgatory agent while trying to avoid the forming belief that he is hallucinating the man in front of him. There's just something about his face — his strong nose, kind eyes, sharp lips, that makes him deeply untrustworthy; perhaps almost as much as he is handsome.

"Who is?" Mark leans closer, squinting at where Donghyuck is pointing at.

The man chuckles lightly, adjusting his well tailored suit. He cocks his head to the side teasingly, and a mix of fear and confusion flares up Donghyuck's senses. For a moment, he is truly convinced that this is a fever dream, that there is no such thing as an afterlife and that everything up until now has been made up by his own fruitful imagination, which doesn't seem so far off from the truth if the way Mark shakes his head in disdain even means anything at all.

"Do you mean God?" the lawyer asks, and Donghyuck hesitantly nods, still staring. "I can't see Them. I was an atheist when I died."

"What?" Donghyuck once again finds himself confused, turning to Mark with a frown.

He sighs. "Haven't you read the pamphlet I gave you? God shows Themselves through your own perspective. It's different for everyone because everyone has their own beliefs about who They might be."

The man Donghyuck is seeing seems pleased after Mark's brief explanation, nodding in confirmation despite the agent's clear obliviousness to his presence. It's almost ironic — Mark died an atheist, but there he was, pleading for Donghyuck's salvation to a God he can't even see.

"Does he speak?" Donghyuck discreetly asks, avoiding his eyes from the podium.

Mark slaps his own forehead in annoyance, looking unbelievably defeated as he drops his suitcase over the table unceremoniously. "Take a wild fucking guess, Donghyuck. _Jesus._ "

The human gasps at the name, but God doesn't show much reaction — They (or He?) only inspect their own nails, silently waiting for their argument to come to an end.

"I see your purgatory agent isn't much too keen on you," Their voice thunders through the room, echoing empty against the equally hollow chairs. Donghyuck stirs on his seat, spooked, but Mark doesn't move an inch, only leaning his chin against his open palm in boredom. "I believe he has a reason."

The situation is so ridiculous Donghyuck cannot even bother to care for Their words. _So this is God,_ he thinks, and he's not quite sure if he expected a somewhat tall man who is just about his age and sports a fit body despite his entire abstract deal. This is Them, then, and it doesn't feel right — Donghyuck isn't impressed. If anything, he's a little disappointed; shouldn't Their form take up a much more interesting matter, considering it can turn into anything from this Universe to the next?

"I can hear your thoughts," They say, eyes scanning Donghyuck from up and down. "I must say I'm not impressed either. But perhaps the form you chose me to be in has some sort of jazz to it," Their gaze comes to a stop when it rests over Mark's suitcase, looking back and forth between it and Donghyuck as if They were trying to figure out if they came from the same prime matter. "Tell him to bring it to me."

Shaking, Donghyuck nudges him with his finger: "T-they told me to tell you to bring the suitcase to Them."

Mark frowns at his emotional display, probably wondering what is it that's making Donghyuck so jittery. He can't put a finger on it himself, but he guesses it's what happens to a mortal body once it's in the presence of so much energy — because God is the core of every matter and the buzzing electricity behind it, Donghyuck guesses it's just normal that he has the chills running up his spine. It feels as if he's about to bend and break; as if TV statics ran through him.

"Don't be a coward," Mark nudges him back, passing Donghyuck the suitcase. "Do what you do best: lie and cheat. You got this. My files are spotless clean."

And while he doesn't know what Mark is going on about his files, Donghyuck does know how to lie and cheat his way out of trouble, even if just through spoken word alone. So he does what he's told, and walks step by step towards the figure of God, hands clutching all of the evidence necessary for him to avoid eternal torture in the name of misguided decisions and missed opportunities. Their hand is held out almost teasingly, daring Donghyuck to come closer, and he unceremoniously does so, refusing to be met in hesitation; the number one rule for cheating. You need to believe it yourself — you can't be caught slacking.

Then the suitcase is out of his hands and into God's, and Donghyuck makes a show out of lifting his chin up, the second rule coming in handy as he imposes confidence to himself like it would save his life. _Sometimes,_ he remembers a friend's advice, _the only thing between you and your goal is whether you believe you can reach it or not._ He was talking about cloning credit cards then, but Donghyuck lived by it until the day he died, and he doesn't plan to stop now.

His eyes fall uninterested to a spot behind Their shoulder, lips pressing together to pass off as nonchalant. That closes in as the third rule — _don't let them know how much you want it._ Wanting is a sin to the eyes of a liar; it'll domesticate you before morality even gets the chance, and Donghyuck refuses to be more manipulated than he already is. Silence falls over the room and makes it a snow globe in its unmoving plasticity, nothing ever hitting as real as it is, and Donghyuck's fate lies on wavering hands.

There's some sort of obnoxious assertiveness in the way the man in front of him scans the well organized files with a lazy grin, not bothering to take the situation seriously even though Donghyuck's breath is fighting to push through the block on his throat, so much energy making the hairs on his nape stand up by merely being around Them. It seems, to him, that this God is not the one he learned about in catholic school anymore — Donghyuck wonders if he's gone wild with the demand, if he gave up on benevolence far too long ago, when humans had just started to go downhill.

But maybe he's always been neutral. Maybe unchanging morality — and everything that comes with it — is all but an objective job, one in which you can't let yourself be any more kinder than it's necessary to be in order to keep your work unapproachable by criticism in any way. Perhaps there's no such a thing as 'playing God', because God is life and life rarely ever is kind, forgiving, lovable. The man in front of Donghyuck is a reflection of the world he just left, and so it makes sense that They went just a tad bit insane. He almost feels bad for Them; almost being the keyword.

"You're joking, right?" Their eyes come back to Donghyuck's, comic disbelief all over Their face as They chuckle under Their breath. He wets his lips, annoyed. "You're joking. You don't need a judge for this. You could've told you were going to Hell by yourself — I can't believe you would waste my time like this."

Donghyuck frowns, avoiding the panic that grows within him once the word 'Hell' leaves Their mouth. This is something he knew was going to happen — now he has to find a way around it. "How so?" he plays dumb, blinking innocently.

"It says here you _sold_ your _soul_ to the _Devil_ for…" They lean closer to the file in Their hands, showing signs of deep disgust. " _Designer clothing?_ Seriously?"

And despite his situation, Donghyuck bites down a smirk.

"It was the 90's," the corner of his lips struggle to sit straight as he explains himself, hands behind his back. "Everyone was wearing designer, sir. I just wanted to fit in."

That would've made do, and for a moment Donghyuck believes it was all it would take for his poor decisions to be forgiven, but God takes another file from the suitcase, repeating its content out loud. "You also cloned a little over twenty credit cards over your lifetime." They smack their lips, inspecting the paper. "For an embezzler, that's somehow pretty low of a number. I can give you that."

"See, Sir?" Donghyuck grins.

They don't grin back. "You amaze me, Donghyuck," Their words are sharp and neat, and oh so predictable — he's heard it before in the voice of his own mother, in the voice of teachers and counselors and therapists. It's the exasperation; the implied _oh, Donghyuck,_ the underlying disappointment. "You have a lot of courage to show up here and plead for a place in Heaven when you've raised Hell in everyone's lives for quite a long time."

"That's not true," he frowns. "With all due respect, sir," and while others may be above ass kissing, Donghyuck isn't. "I don't think being annoying and scamming old rich women is enough to make me deserve the same punishment as, say, Adolf Hitler. I don't find that far."

"Well, that's the thing about rewarding and punishing people," They answer, a fake smile growing sweetly around perfect teeth. "Not everyone in Heaven deserves the same reward; not everyone in Hell deserves the same punishment."

"And you still allow it to be that black on white?" Donghyuck questions, trying to strike a chord.

They don't even react to his words, gently placing Donghyuck's files back in the suitcase. Their figure seems ready to leave, a foot out of the door already as They confirm it with Their next words: "Yes, I do. Now if you excuse me…"

Donghyuck isn't proud of his sudden break of character, but rudeness is often what makes people turn around in their heels; he supposes God isn't any different. "I don't excuse you."

His voice seems to echo through the room, and he can only imagine Mark holding his breath, his never changing scowl turning red in both annoyance and disbelief. Donghyuck would miss him — he's not quite the most pleasant friend, but he has been one nonetheless. That has to count for something.

"What?" As expected, They turn around in shock, eyes closing in on Donghyuck's figure.

 _Water off a duck's back,_ he thinks to himself as he sighs, then repeats: "I said I don't excuse you."

Some of these moments are often unfairly lengthy in fiction, Donghyuck thinks. The truth is that, as everything else in life, the tension comes and goes as quickly as the fleeting wind, once again remembering him that time is a funny thing, one that doesn't owe you anything. When he repeats himself, time doesn't stop — despite the danger of the situation, despite the anxiety plugged up at his nape, despite the cracking of his lips, the moment doesn't bother to slow down like it does in cinema. If anything, it goes faster; as if everything that could happen would, and all at once.

And anyways, Donghyuck is already dead. What is God to do — kill him again?

Their lips press into a thin line, anger apparent as Their teeth became gritted. "Little boy—"

He wastes no time in firing away an answer, interrupting before it was too late. The entire room seems to watch over him in silence, but there's no one else there besides Mark; to whom Donghyuck refuses to turn back and look at before getting his one way ticket to Heaven. "I don't want to go to Hell. Morally, you can't force me to go to Hell. You endorse free will, I'm reclaiming it."

The room falls silent once again, and Donghyuck's back tingles with the weight of Mark's gaze. He wishes he could turn around and tell him that _it's okay, don't worry, I got this,_ but the argument is far too tense to be broken up now — not when Donghyuck is close to get what he bargained for.

Their voice dares to crack. _If this is God,_ Donghyuck thinks to himself, _then I'm going to make Them cry._ "What?"

"You need to give me one more chance," he starts, hesitantly laying down word after word. Donghyuck has no idea of what that would look like — but he should soon, considering he cannot ask for something he doesn't know of.

"Why would I do that?" God answers, the underlying anger making Donghyuck's skin crawl. This is the point of no return; he has to finish what he started.

"Because it's morally correct and your morals are unchanging," he gulps, growing more confident as the words come to him in the memory of the pamphlet from the hall. "I've read it in the pamphlet… Unless you don't consider morals to be important? Because then that's a whole other discussion I — and I'm sure everyone in the afterlife — would _love_ to have-"

His speech is cut short by cold words. "I don't know what you want me to do."

And that's when Donghyuck finds himself needing to really think for the first time in this conversation. Arguing and manipulating come naturally at this point, a sixth sense if you will, and he's gotten quite good at it over the years, being the living proof that practice does make perfect. However, as admittedly good at lying as he is, he doesn't hold the same talent for making up second plans — Donghyuck has never been in this situation before, and improvising doesn't come as easily as it should.

He blabbers on. "Give me a _second_ _chance_ to prove I'm good is all I want you to do."

"How?" is the question thrown back at him; but it's not quite a question as much as it is an order, a temptation, a dare. They know They have the upper hand.

Donghyuck decides he doesn't like this guy in the slightest, divine powers and whatnot. They're a prick, and while the world might mirror Their characteristics, he is quite sure himself that he has little to no contribution on the moral downfall of mankind; it should not be pushed onto him if he has no blame on it. It's not as if Donghyuck colonized, killed, abused, overworked or enslaved anyone — if anything, he was most certainly a victim of most of these things, and the decisions he took were just a consequence of the story God gave him in the first place. None of that proves his morality; he's been thrown around like a punching bag by the Universe, and he shouldn't be under fire for things he had to do in order to live, even if sometimes reluctantly or vicariously.

Would he do anything different were he to be reborn? It's hard to say. Donghyuck's life has been an intricate spider web of experiences, actions and feelings that lead him to this very moment, so saying he'd change it if he could would be like implying he had a say in the way his life went down, when that was pretty much not the case. Still, it's this or nothing — and nothing sounds a lot worse.

He breathes in.

"Let me live again."

He breathes out.

Donghyuck is met with stunned silence, making him involuntarily flinch at the never ending buzz of energy coming from the God in front of him. It's almost too much — at some point, bravery turns into stupidity, and that Donghyuck doesn't know how to deal with. He's already far too deep into this to back out now, and he's caught red handed while so. _What would his friends do?_ is the question, but they're all alive and, well, Donghyuck isn't. They wouldn't do anything; they wouldn't be here in the first place.

But maybe that only proves what he already knew: Donghyuck has always been the bravest of them. That's a reason to keep going, because — who else would be able to pick a fight with God and get out unharmed?

"Let me live again for a period of time and I'll show you how good I can be." Donghyuck proposes again, face stoic. He's not sure of what he's doing, but he should be soon enough; the situation molds to his likings instead of the opposite.

This is a God that holds no mercy for him; this is a God that will receive no mercy from him.

"You'd just act the same. You'd have the exact same conditions that made you bad before," comes from sewn shut lips, Their eyes flashing in colors Donghyuck's couldn't comprehend. It feels as if the body in front of him is about to bend until it snaps, and that in itself is what tells him he's winning; the final push, the last words, the end. The snap — for better or for worse.

"Then add external influences. One bad and one good; they'd cancel each other out," he pushes. Donghyuck wets his lips, spitting out: "Are you or are you not God?"

And that does it.

"Your pretty little face is going to Hell," They spit back, the color of Their face flickering in anger. "No matter how much you try to be better."

"That's a 'yes', I suppose?" He smiles, cocking his head to the side.

If They feel the urge to dissolve Donghyuck's existence into a puddle of sand, They don't act on it. "Get out of here, Donghyuck," the door opens violently with a flick of Their hand, wind coming in from the hall and making the hairs on the back of his neck stand up. "Talk to your agent; tell him he has bad news coming his way."

It's a pity, really, that Mark had to be the one to deal with him — he surely got a lot more than he bargained for. Sometimes you have to be careful of what you wish for; who knows if you just might get it.

He's met with the agent worriedly walking around in circles as he closes the door behind him, a sheepish grin on his face. Donghyuck knows he should feel bad for the consequences of his actions and how they could affect someone who is perfectly innocent, but if he were to be honest, the only feeling settling in his heart is relief, pooling over his head like a halo. He _got_ out of that room, unharmed on top of that, and there's no time for grieving a choice he had to make — Mark might be punished for his behavior, but that's none of his business. At this point, it's every man for himself; Donghyuck refuses to be blamed.

"What did you _do?_ " the man asks, a throbbing vein near his neck making it clear that he's under overwhelmingly high levels of stress.

 _And he's supposed to be neutral,_ Donghyuck tsks to himself. "What I had to do," he answers, plopping down on a bench and putting his feet up the woodwork. "Why are you so pressed?"

"You deserve to go to Hell," Mark breathes out shakily. "You really do."

There's no news in that. But people rarely ever get what they deserve, and Donghyuck is beyond feeling sorry for either himself or someone else — that much he knows. It's okay; Mark would understand if he walked a mile in his shoes.

"I know," Donghyuck smiles weakly. The wicked had never been able to rest, so why start now?

Hell, contrary to its biblical imagery, is not hot. Donghyuck wouldn't even describe it as warm; if anything, it's freezing cold.

The deep waters of the sea could be somewhat alike to it, except Donghyuck is sure there is no ground underneath the tons of pitch black water, meaning you can only dive further and further, not being able to come back to the surface. Light doesn't filter in, but that's something he already could tell if the unmoving huge creature floating near him is anything to go by. It's humanoid, with a pair of slits for eyes and dry, cracked lips, slightly open as if it were about to say something very important, but forgot about what it was.

A multitude of shiny lines comes from it, attached to the creature's limbs, alike to a jellyfish's tentacles in its translucence. It's almost see through in how pale its skin is, but no organs are able to be seen, which leaves Donghyuck wondering if it has any at all. One could confuse it with a corpse were they to see it, but the feeling of paranoia creeping up in his column makes it clear that this creature, too, is just waiting for a moment when it'll snap, the slits of its face being spread open like a bloody wound.

There's an undeniable feeling of being watched as Donghyuck struggles to swim near it, fear stopping him from coming any closer than necessary as he gasps around the neverending feeling of asphyxiation, the pression of being so deep down finally getting to him as his movements become tiresome, slow. Donghyuck knows he can't pass out here, though — he's surrounded by unblinking eyes that stare him down, the pathetic audience to his equally humiliating attempt at maintaining himself. The creature in front of him is the only thing that doesn't bother to watch, but that makes it even more unsettling; as if it was patiently waiting for him to agonize to death by himself, just so it could consume the remaining flesh.

Except Donghyuck can't die again. There's no relief of death here — any agony is everlasting and witnessed in first person, meaning there's no anesthetic for the pain of drowning, drowning, drowning and not dying. It feels like being pulled apart, maybe, or like balancing the entire world on the fragile top of your head; Donghyuck would sooner pluck his fingers out with his teeth than swim anywhere deeper, because he knows his body would give out and his conscience would stay intact.

A bloody eye beaten into a pulp floats beside him, the aftermath of another violent encounter, and Donghyuck holds in the need to puke as he realizes this is not going to be the last time he comes in contact with missing body parts. Even worse; it's possible one of those body parts might be his soon enough. Who knows what hides in the folds of endless water? Donghyuck doesn't know whether thinking other humans do makes it better or worse.

He's struggling to contain the water in his lungs when the creature's lips move very slowly, as if the words coming from it were travelling miles and miles through the water, making the delaying of them to Donghyuck a long, long process. The eyes that watch him blink in surprise, then leave in a hurry, which doesn't make him any more comfortable with his situation. This place feels like death — except death isn't particularly bad, and there's something much deeper going on between the swirls of water. It's the feeling of coming so close to death you can taste it; of being prey, of settling your neck right under the knife.

Donghyuck knows, for sure, everything in this place is out to get him. They might not be quick at it, but only because there's no need to; their patience is a proof that their prey is a guaranteed catch. Sooner or later, his limbs will be floating around, and they'll be just a couple of what could be an entire football field of bloody flesh. At that thought, he can barely hold back the need to vomit — it's too much. He'd rather spend eternity buried alive with larvae.

"Lee Donghyuck," the voice in his mind calls, but it's not one of his thoughts. The mere calling of his name feels like a punch in the gut, a kick on his ribs, and it's inevitable to think that he's hallucinating it at first. He couldn't be, though — the voice sounds just like he does.

The creature blinks its eyes, the two ends of the abused skin meeting like human blinks would. Donghyuck is grossed out by the smell; almost as if the rottenness was inside of him. "I see you're here despite the struggle," the voice once again repeats, and he considers thumping his head against his closed fist to make it stop. It rings in his ears painfully, eating up his brain and making it feel mushy, as if it was about to melt through his ears.

One would be silly to think that Hell is made of any agony humanity knows of, when it's far worse; but it's not like Donghyuck isn't familiar with the belief that not everything feels like something else. There's comfort in that, at least — he could've never predicted it.

He has no strength to answer, and when he opens his mouth, the taste of iron fills up his taste buds. It's yet another reminder that there's blood in the water, and his lips are glued shut after that, lungs bursting with every second that passes. "Don't try and answer me," the creature tells him through Donghyuck's own voice.

It's so disturbing he feels the need to inhale shakily, but there's no air here — water fills him up, and there's no way to cough it out, the only thing he can do being agonize over it. Maybe this is why everyone else is unmoving, still; they're all trying to be in less pain than necessary. "I was told your torture isn't supposed to be eternal," it drags out through Donghyuck's skull, painfully knocking against the corners of his brain. "I was told you'd get a second chance, even though you don't deserve it."

He fights the urge to gulp. "It's a pity, really," the creature's lips form a sideway smile, but it doesn't quite feel like it; it looks like it's a deep cut rather than a mouth. "But I know you'll be coming back here in no time. You're rotten, Donghyuck. Don't forget that."

Donghyuck struggles to keep himself from sinking, feet kicking in against the dense water. _Don't panic,_ he tells himself, because panic would only make it worse — if he wants to get out of here spotless clean, he has to manage. His movements start to get gentler, slower, consuming less energy and making his bruising heartbeat settle back slightly. There's no use in wallowing in self pity here; it won't get him anywhere but the bottom of the ocean, getting his limbs pulled apart by other creatures.

So yes, maybe he _is_ rotten. But that's no one's business — the struggle to keep living isn't a morality issue. Donghyuck is just trying to keep going, and that's what he's good at, at the end of the day.

"You're trying to float," the voice in his mind snickers. "You've got weights on your pockets."

He doesn't know if the creature means it metaphorically or not, if the force pulling him down means anything at all. Even then, Donghyuck feels weirdly calm — he might have ended up in Hell, but he got what he wanted, and no amount of bad mouthing will take it from him. In the end, he has the last laugh; as Donghyuck often does.

The creature moves a webbed hand, slowly flickering its wrist, and Donghyuck is thrown back by immense pressure, sinking a bit deeper at that. The water pushes him down, but it feels like being kicked — or perhaps burnt, since his senses are not exactly working as they should be. His whole body answers to it, forcefully struggling even more to keep his balance, and the creature seems pleased at its power display. That's what everything in the afterlife is about, anyways; proving you're bigger, stronger, meaner than humans, who stand irrelevant under the weight of your orders. Donghyuck is all but a tool who refuses to be used, and that makes him prey for both Heaven and Hell. _Oh, well_.

"You're not bigger than your little body," the voice chants, venomous. "You only have yourself to blame; you think you're a God. You're not. You've had it coming, Donghyuck. You didn't deserve anything in life and you don't deserve anything in death," it spits out. "You'll be back soon, and when you do, it won't be pretty. You'll regret having ever opened your mouth."

But he won't be back. Donghyuck promised himself that — he _won't_ be back here to know what it's talking about, and his word is the word of a God; it'll be made true.

The creature smiles again, preparing to fling Donghyuck with another flick of his wrist. "See you soon."

He's launched up helplessly, the water above his feet struggling to maintain his weight as he watches the dark point where he once was get smaller and smaller, his way up to the superficie marked by extreme differences of pressure, warmth and illumination, making him dizzy enough to almost pass out with the effort needed to just keep his head straight and his eyes open. It takes him about two hours to get to somewhere light can infiltrate in, his lungs bursting with the urge for oxygen that cannot find him, his bodily functions giving out under the drastic changes of ambient. Donghyuck doesn’t know how long he spent just going up, up, up, but it does feel quite as if his skull had been split into two, or perhaps as if his limbs were pulled apart by the pressure, which wouldn’t be so surprising if the burning of his lungs meant anything at all.

It wasn’t a kind trip, but Donghyuck grounds himself on his thoughts to avoid the nausea, the exhaustion, the never ending asphyxiation — what should he do now? If he were to live again, what could prove him as worthy, as benevolent and good? There are thousands of millions of things that could be counted as “good”, and about twice as many that could be counted as bad. What should he do, then? End wars? Save lives? Enlist? Be a doctor? Be a banker? Do charity? Research? Write a book? What are the odds of goodness ever finding him, if Donghyuck doesn’t find it first?

These questions go unanswered even when he finds himself in the middle of the everlasting sea, only water surrounding him as he desperately fishes for his breath, feeling the merciful oxygen fill his lungs for the first time in what seems like forever. How long has Donghyuck been dead, and how to say if he’s alive now? Death isn’t quite as striking as he imagined it would be. It’s actually quite of a blurry thing — you can’t tell the difference between being alive and being dead, you just know, deep inside, that the body you carry runs cold and dry, ready to decompose; the only remedy to the feeling is making waves, and so he does it, watching as his arms form movement in the water the more he struggles to keep himself from going back under. The sky above him is clear and so, so blue, devouring Donghyuck’s thoughts as he wonders what can one even do after escaping Hell.

He wants to celebrate, to throw his fists into the air, to yell at the top of his lungs, but his body is still just a body, and it doesn’t match with his conscience’s unrelenting wish to be bigger, stronger. Donghyuck refuses to go through all of this for nothing, though, so he does what he’s been doing up until now — he swims. He swims until his arms and shoulders give out, until the burning sun hoists him up by the neck, until his lips are all cracked and his eyes are bloodshot red from the salt and the wind. Donghyuck swims because there is no motivation quite like anger, and he refuses to rise above hell just to come ever so close to shore. Whatever fire it is that burns inside of him, it stands no chance against the addiction to life, the refusal to just give up and let the current take him. Bless him, anyways. Donghyuck can’t help himself; he wants more life. He does.

It’s in the things money can’t buy — the warm sunset, the harsh sound of kicks hitting the ground, the hollowness of a singer’s throat. Donghyuck is addicted to living. He’d sooner become a murderer than accept death as his final destiny; not when he still has a chance, not when he can smoke one more cigarette, microwave another meal, lean back against another grass bed, call his father one last time and tell him all of things he did wrong. There is always more, more, more, more, and Donghyuck hopes those last moments could fill up yet another lifetime, one that hopefully lands him a spot in Heaven, pushing against God’s own desire.

The idea of such a victory makes the butterflies in his stomach flutter ever so gently, pride warming him up from inside out as he realizes his name could go down in History for defying everything up until now. How would it feel — to see God and know he won? To leave Satan in Hell, waiting on a dead body that would never come? These are the things that keep him hopeful; the idea that winning isn’t as out of his reach as everyone makes it seem like it is. Donghyuck still has road under his feet, and the ones trying to hold him back do it out of fear.

He doesn’t get to shore on his own — before the sunset, a fishing boat coincidentally finds him and hoists him aboard, offering him a towel and dry clothes immediately after he barely manages to reach the deck, coughing out water. It’s so clearly planned that Donghyuck avoids smirking up at the sky in acknowledgement, the afterlife still making sure of his safety even when it wants him to fail. He doesn’t take it as benevolence; it’s probably just another one of God’s tricks, a willingness to let Donghyuck live just so They can get the satisfaction out of sending him back to Hell later on. What’s winning without a little bit of torture?

They travel two days and three nights until they reach South Korea’s coast, the group of fishermen informing him that their destination is somewhere near the countryside, planning to reach and ground the boat in Naksan beach — which is where they’re willing to take Donghyuck, though he’d be on his own after. He made sure to be polite and respectful during his time aboard, but didn’t interact much; whatever it was that they thought of him, Donghyuck didn’t want to contest it, afraid of being left behind were they to figure out that he wasn’t a refugee. It’s not like he doesn’t have a few stray morals still, but rather that he doesn’t want to risk losing this ride; even if it meant he had to sit down with a group of elderly men and pretend he’s been trying to flee his home country for years now.

They ask him about the so called home country, but Donghyuck brushes them off by saying it’s a traumatic experience he doesn’t want to talk about — they accept it, but something lingers at his gut. He should be putting effort into being honest and morally correct, but turns out these are two very difficult things to be once your survival is at risk, and so he is left with anxiety that he could be sent to Hell anytime now. His forgiveness is certainly not promised, and old habits die hard enough for him to worry about what to do to minimize the damage.

He makes efforts in helping out with the boat, but they were all disregarded as the men thought he was far too shaken up to do anything; Donghyuck was left with nothing to do until they landed in Naksan, where he got picked up by a gloomy looking chauffeur who refused to look at him through their entire two hour trip to Seoul, making it clear that whoever sent him was not pleased with Donghyuck’s presence on Earth. He gave out to exhaustion thirty minutes into the road, the soft buzzing of the car and the darkness surrounding him filling Donghyuck up with some tangible nostalgia that’s hard to fight against; when he closes his eyes, he almost imagines he’s falling asleep on his mother’s couch, and he’ll soon wake up in his childhood bedroom again.

Of course, he doesn’t. When he wakes up, they’re cornering a huge apartment complex, the old building showing no sight of existing life as the curtains are all closed and no light comes from it, despite the dawning of Seoul’s night forcing the streetlights to shine even brighter than usual. He’s about to ask where they were when the man wordlessly unlocks the car, face turned to the street in a silent order. That’s when Donghyuck knows he should go, but his limbs feel like jelly still, and he’s scared that he’ll fall to the ground if he were to try and stand up. It’s been a stressful couple of days, for sure, and he’d like to be home, but there’s no such a thing as home anymore — that was before he died, in another country, and surrounded by people who don’t remember his death at all. The building in front of him might be the only home Donghyuck could ever get in this Earth from now on.

So he walks out of the car and inside it, tiredness clinging to his back as the doorman offers him a sympathetic smile, handing him a key while maintaining short conversation.

“Welcome to Dream Complex, sir,” he says, tipping his hat to Donghyuck’s direction. “We were thrilled to have your call last month. Things haven’t been agitated here lately — not many people looking for rental apartments,” his voice gets lower, as if the complexes economic situation was something to be discreet about. “But I’m glad a nice young man like yourself has made such an investment for your future.”

 _Nice young man,_ he chuckles to himself. “Yeah…” Donghyuck agrees, not knowing what to say. “Thank you for your hard work.”

“No problem,” the man smiles even brighter. “I suppose your friend is coming later on?”

Were he in another mental space, Donghyuck would question his words and find out further about what he meant by “his friend”, but he doesn’t care enough this time. He’s been tired out by the past few days, his feet hurt, the bags under his eyes probably look pitch black, and this might as well happen — if Heaven wills him a roommate, Donghyuck can do nothing except agree to it. He’s learned it the hard way that Heaven does whatever it wants to.

The first thing he does as he walks inside the reasonably small apartment is fall face first into the couch, kicking his shoes out as he doesn’t even bother to look around, eyes closing. Tomorrow — tomorrow Donghyuck will be brave, kind, honest, moral; tonight resting is the only thing he can do.

And while today is rough, tomorrow shows itself fast coming and inevitable. His sleep is unstable throughout the night, having woken up at least two or three times with his heart sitting atop of his tongue, but it should be okay, nonetheless — by the time he opens his eyes definitively, the afternoon sun shines through the balcony and finds itself hovering over his features, warm all over and forgiving as it often is. The sunshine melts on his eyes, nose, lips, and pours over him gently, as if a reminder that life is not supposed to be the burden Donghyuck once thought it was.

He's quickly interrupted from his moment with the Earth, though, because a curious finger pokes the pliant flesh of his cheek, as if hesitantly petting a zoo animal, and Donghyuck's eyes shoot open, alarmed.

"What the f—" he's about to say, but the person who did it quickly hides themselves behind a chair, the only thing being left out from the obviously terrible hiding spot being a pair of fluffy white wings, fluttering in adrenaline.

 _An angel,_ he thinks to himself, fighting the amazement towards the creature to make his face as stoic and indifferent as possible. Donghyuck doesn't need to be caught gaping at a Heaven sent creature, not when Heaven has been trying to get him at each and any chance it has.

He sits up straight, eyeing the creature curiously, not knowing what to expect. What does an angel look like? Donghyuck doesn't have any idea, as the afterlife is hardly any close to how humans have imagined it. They stand between buzzing silence as the creature slowly, but surely, tries and takes a sneak peek at him, their eyes rising above the chair hesitantly. When they see Donghyuck looking back, they immediately go back to hiding again, but not for long — it seems that curiosity got the best of them, and so they rise up again, only a pair of eyes and a head of slightly wavy grey hair to its exposed form.

They're pretty eyes; one can say that. Long dark lashes mold doe brown orbs, blinking confusedly at Donghyuck as if his existence was a mystery, which might feel quite ironic considering they are the angel in this situation. He considers waving at them in greeting, but decides against it as lifting a hand up might alarm them more than show any sign of sympathy.

Donghyuck clears his throat, watching the angel's eyes widen as he does so. "Hi," he says, which is a good way to introduce yourself to someone you've never even thought could exist in your universal plan.

The angel doesn't answer, eyes widened to their maximum as they stare, unmoving. They must be trying to appear tough to shoo off Donghyuck, and while he might have been scared of Heaven, he's definitely not scared of a doll looking angel. Their wings flutter with energy, being the only thing about the angel that doesn't seem to sit still, and after some staring, Donghyuck decides to just head off to the kitchen, leaving the angel to decide by themselves what they feel like doing next.

He contours the chair the angel is hiding behind by quite a lot, widening the distance between them as he tiptoes to the kitchen, his entire body aching. It's a small apartment, but it's somewhat fancy either way — the kitchen is shaped like a rectangle, adjacent to the dining table that, by itself, is connected to the living room. There's not a lot in it, just the basic kitchen inventory, but Donghyuck manages to fry an egg to himself as he stares out in thought.

The angel is probably the friend the doorman talked about last night, which means they'll be sticking to Donghyuck during his time on Earth. While eating by himself, hips leaning against the stove, he quickly establishes that he doesn't like the fact that there's an angel living with him, and that they must probably be some sort of divine vigilant cop, being sent to watch over him closely and look for flaws like a hunting eagle. It seems quite of a reach, considering they look the closest to harmless one could be on Earth, but Donghyuck doesn't have the luxury of trusting someone based on looks only.

He hears a loud noise from the living room, and sneaks out of the kitchen carefully, an eating knife on his hand as he peeks through the door, watching the angel whimper in surprise as they struggle to turn the chair that just fell back in place. Their frame is quite small despite looking slightly taller than Donghyuck, a grey button up shirt and beige slacks hanging from their body as they avoid to come in contact with the other furniture in spite of their wings, who seem to be making a bigger mess than one could think they would.

"Careful," Donghyuck whistles, putting the knife in his pocket as he slowly moves closer and closer, still not discarding the idea of a sudden attack. "You're going to set his place ablaze."

The angel stands still again, perhaps even frightened, as Donghyuck moves the chair back to its place in the dining table, only the sound of furniture dragging against the ground between them. The sun rays from the window hit the angel's wings in full force, twinkling and glistening against the fluffy white and making it dazzle on, which has Donghyuck moving his gaze away due to the fear of getting blind if he stared for too long. He moves an arm over his eyes, covering them slightly, and complains: "Can't you turn that off? I can't see shit."

The angel gasps, as if they didn't expect to be talked to. After some moments of staring at each other in silence, they speak up: "I— I can't. I don't know to do it yet."

Their voice is surprisingly deep, but Donghyuck finds it somewhat pleasant, nevertheless; he guesses it's hard not to when angels are made to be liked. "You'll have to. You're going to bump against the furniture all the time." He brings his arms to his chest, crossing them over it. "I'm Donghyuck."

"Jaemin," the angel answers quietly, a pretty frown on his face. "I've had instructions on how to guard my wings but I've never tried it before."

"Well…?" Donghyuck frowns back. "Then try it now."

Jaemin bites on his bottom lip hesitantly, but makes an effort as his frown deepens, the pair of fluffy wings flickering in and out of reality for a few times before they disappear completely, only the soft buzzing of a translucent halo sitting atop of his head interrupting the overwhelming silence pairing over them, buried between the locks of untamed messy grey hair.

The angel stretches his arms carefully, then turns his head around to look at his back, silently checking if the wings are still there. When he turns back to face Donghyuck, his features shows hints of disturbance that don't seem to be erased as they maintain conversation.

"I'm sorry for poking you," Jaemin tells him once they're both sitting at each end of the dining table, the distance a proof of their mistrust in each other. "I'm just… I've never seen a human being before. I am— _was_ scared."

"I've never seen an angel before either," he answers, leaning his elbows on the table and interlocking his own fingers together. "So what's your deal?"

The angel cocks his head to the side. "What?"

"What's your deal?" Donghyuck resists the urge to roll his eyes. "Why are you here?"

Jaemin blinks, looking down to his hands. Donghyuck follows his gaze, observing how pale his hands are compared to his; his fingers are short and his nails are slightly long, and they look just how one would think angel hands would look like. They're boyish, innocent, stuttering in hesitant movements.

"I don't know," the angel confesses, features turning gloomy. "They just sent me here and told me to take care of you."

"I don't need to be taken care of," he taps his fingers against the table's wooden surface. "Not in the slightest."

Jaemin sighs tiredly, but doesn't say anything else. It occurs to Donghyuck that him, too, just came in contact with this new life for the first time — he must be exhausted from his trip, and even though Donghyuck isn't the kindest, he can say he has a few stray morals; the ones that tell him to leave the topic alone for a few days, until they both manage to make themselves at home.

"It's nice to meet you, nevertheless," he forces himself to say, watching Jaemin's eyes move up to meet his, surprised. "I, um. Had eggs for breakfast. If you're hungry."

Jaemin supports his face on his closed fist. "What does 'breakfast' mean?"

Donghyuck blinks. _Don't they have breakfast in heaven?_ "It's the first thing you eat after you wake up."

"Oh," the angel hums. "It's silly to give it a name."

It quite is. Donghyuck never thought about it.

"Uh," he says, not sure of what to answer.

As he observes the angel's crestfallen eyes, Donghyuck figures out by himself that the months ahead of him are sure to be very long; perhaps longer even than a lifetime.

The first days are rough. Donghyuck is not about to pretend coming back from the dead is easy.

Time is still quite messed up for him, although he has no idea why. He's jetlagged; which shouldn't seem so bad, considering he's lived to this timezone for all of his life, but there's something slightly crooked about it now. Everything seems to behave like so after Hell — the world is tilted, leaning to the right, somewhat out of its usual atmosphere. He's up late in the afternoon and back to sleep early in the morning, and what happens between that is blurry and slow, like melting matter knowing it doesn't belong.

Perhaps it's the taste of death clawing against his throat, running up to a dry mouth. There's aching in his bones that lingers from dusk to dawn, and even the smallest tasks can sometimes feel like too much effort. His body is gradually coming to terms with its newfound livelihood, and it's a process, as everything seems to be — nothing is ever quick, nothing is ever instant.

Donghyuck often dreams about the deep sea, swimming against a strong current, the metallic taste of blood swallowing him down, but there's not much to do about it; not when he's so weak, when his limbs refuse to get up from the beaten out twin sized bed he's been given. The entire apartment, along with the building, is far too old to be considered anything but a ghost town — and the dust is not helping its case either.

Jaemin doesn't bother him as much as he initially thought he would. He's still clumsy — Donghyuck often finds chairs knocked off from the dining table, broken plates sitting atop of the sink, stains of juice over the carpet, and those are only a few of the things that the angel managed to bump into or break during the past week. They don't talk much, or seem to like each other a lot; admittedly, Donghyuck hasn't put too much of an effort into being his friend. He stays locked up inside his bedroom all day long, and Jaemin wanders about in the apartment.

As far as they're both concerned, leaving the house doesn't seem to be a good idea; even if the person you're living with is rarely ever in the same room as you, and his manners are as strange to you as yours are to him.

Though after a week of eating only small meals and watching the wall intently, Donghyuck has grown quite bored of it. It's the crack of dawn when he decides to get up and out of bed for the first time in one or two days, his feet barely sustaining his weight as he moves his limping body through the dark hallways, an irrational fear of waking Jaemin up making him refuse to turn any of the lights on. He would appreciate it if Jaemin never walked onto any room at the same time as Donghyuck is in it, just to spare himself from having to actually acknowledge his presence; it feels humiliating enough as it is to be babysitted by an angel, and it doesn't sit well with him that Jaemin has such a moral high ground over him.

However, as he walks into the dark kitchen and blindly searches for the switch, it's quite of a shock to find Jaemin sitting quietly by himself on the middle of the empty kitchen, one of the living room chairs holding him up as he sits with his back straight, arms crossed and eyes making a point out of intensely staring at the ground. Donghyuck jumps back, alarmed, and lets out a scream he didn't know he could even hold in his chest, the paranoia from having been to Hell finally reaching him as his hands shake uncontrollably, more scared than he remembers ever being. It's pathetic.

The angel looks up at him curiously, as if his behavior wasn't anywhere near unusual or borderline cryptic, as if Donghyuck was the crazy one for being so spooked by an unmoving creature sitting on his kitchen surrounded by pitch black darkness.

"And what the _fuck_ are you doing?" he asks, holding back the urge to yell in frustration as his heartbeat makes no effort into calming down.

Jaemin blinks. "Thinking."

"In the middle of the kitchen?" Donghyuck asks, mortified. "Late at night? In the _dark?_ "

The angel nods nonchalantly. Donghyuck could just drop dead here, out of stress, and he wouldn't even be so annoyed about the perspective of going to Hell again — not when his heart is about to jump out of mouth, raging against his ribcage.

"Why?" he asks, leaning against the wall as his limbs start to refuse to work. " _Why?_ "

"Because I wanted to," Jaemin frowns, confused. "Why? Do humans not think?"

It takes Donghyuck a great deal of self control to not launch himself onto him, fists closed. "We don't do it like _that._ "

And it's not as if he hates him, because he doesn't; it's just the way Jaemin seems to find him so stupid that gets Donghyucks annoyed. He probably thinks he's so much better than human beings from having been born into a place where there's no such thing as sin, as if Donghyuck had chosen to be born into a capitalist society that forced him into scamming people so he could get a mediocre life in the first place.

"Oh," the angel answers, unimpressed. Donghyuck could just reach out and punch him — it wouldn't be hard. "How silly."

Theoretically speaking, he could get away with killing an angel. God would make sure to have his ass on a plate were that the case, but Donghyuck would be able to get away with it if he ran fast enough — just one punch would do the job, as Jaemin doesn't seem to have that much muscle. _I could just come a little closer and choke him with his halo_ , Donghyuck thought to himself. Everyone would be able to tell it was him, but there would be no fingerprints on Jaemin to prove it was intentional. If he bought tickets for the first morning train, no one would be able to catch him fast enough — they'd kill Donghyuck if they ever found him, but they'd have to catch him first.

Donghyuck reluctantly moves those thoughts away. He really has to get into Heaven, and enduring Jaemin is one of the many, many steps to it. "Excuse me," he says in a sigh, walking past the angel as if he weren't there at all. It's a blessing that there are no kitchen knives in the entire apartment — Donghyuck wouldn't trust himself with one.

Jaemin resumes to his so called thinking while Donghyuck pointedly ignores him, opening the fridge just to find little to no available food. He figured Heaven would have to feed them one way or another, but what they offer is often just ingredients for them to make their own meals, overestimating Donghyuck's cooking skills at best and making him starve to death at worst. Groaning, he turns around in the small kitchen, avoiding Jaemin's stare as he tries to think of an easy recipe. He doesn't have any money on him, but should start searching for a job soon; Heaven is kind enough to keep him alive, but it sure won't pay for his instant meals and facilities.

Noticing his agitation, Jaemin announces: "There are beignets inside the stove."

"Huh?" Donghyuck asks, distraught.

"I said," the angel repeats himself, turning around to stare at him. "There are beignets in the stove."

And of _course_ the pure, untouchable, benevolent angel would be good at cooking, because why not? He's certainly _so_ good at it, Donghyuck thinks to himself bitterly, since his true calling is keeping a home warm and happy and all of that utopic bullshit. He holds the urge to bite back a rude sounding "no, thank you", trying to focus on his hunger rather than the fact that Jaemin is obnoxiously making an effort in caring for him. _What a fucking asshole,_ Donghyuck's mind reminds him, _trying to_ _have the upper hand._

"Okay," he answers. His cheeks heat up in embarrassment — how more stupid can he make himself sound? "Have you— uh—"

"You can eat them all," Jaemin says, already back in his previous position, arms crossed. There's a slight bother in his face that doesn't go unnoticed to Donghyuck, but this time it doesn't feel directed towards him. Either way, he can't possibly think of anything else that could bother Jaemin; so he assumes he's the problem.

Or maybe he's just trying hard to justify his hatred towards the angel by assuming it's reciprocated. Who knows?

Donghyuck clears his throat. "Uh, yeah, okay."

He doesn't say "thank you", "thanks", or "you didn't have to", though something deeper within him wishes he would have. It's a weird feeling; maybe a calling, a need to be nice to Jaemin that almost makes his lips say the words he hasn't said in a long time. It's probably caused by the… Angel thing. Jaemin's existence is a constant reminder of his responsibility to be a friend to the world, and it can mess up Donghyuck's head pretty badly to be around someone whose mere breathing is a sign of kindness; even if everything is a lot easier to him, as everyone probably kisses the ground he walks on for his generosity.

In the end, all divine entities are just stuck in a constant cycle of kissing each other's asses and falling in love with the _oh so kind_ creature they see in the mirror. At the thought of that, Donghyuck angrily stomps out of the kitchen with the entire tray of beignets, a growing anger intertwining like vine around his brain. Fuck Jaemin for messing with his head like that. _Fuck_ him. He doesn't deserve to be thanked for doing his job.

He eats all of them in bed while watching the old ceiling fan whine under the enormous job of just spinning, eyes tiredly blinking against his tiredness. Donghyuck could've went to bed without eating, for sure, but he's learned long before that food always comes first — in any situation, even if you don't have a place to stay, you'll want to have food and water. The rest you can manage along the way, but nourishing your body is the most important of tasks; it's often what defines whether you'll fail or succeed. It's often a sign that you want to keep living.

So he falls asleep with powdered sugar smidgen around his lips, and when he wakes up, Donghyuck makes a point out of ignoring the fact that there's a duvet on top of him that wasn't there when his eyes first closed. Again — he shouldn't have to thank Jaemin for merely doing what's expected of him in the first place. It's besides the point, too, considering he never asked to be taken care of; Donghyuck owes him nothing at all.

Jaemin is in his bedroom when he steps outside, a gleeful surprise for once. Donghyuck isn't in the mood to be talked to, seen, or analyzed — if anything, the more time they spend away from each other the better, and if they manage it rightfully, this period will go down smoothly and without any major problems, meaning they'll both be able to forget the other as soon as possible. It's with that mindset that Donghyuck leaves the house with only a pair of beige jeans and a dress shirt, courtesy of Heaven's terrible fashion sense and its manifestation sitting on his closet. There are four more pairs of this exact same outfit, meaning he'll probably have to buy himself at least a few new ones if he wants to try and apply to a summer course.

He's not into studying that much, but staying holed up just makes him angry at Jaemin, and Donghyuck _really_ needs to learn to manage that if he wants to go to Heaven. He attempts a job interview in at least ten different establishments from down his street to the next one, and gets himself only two with _lots_ of convincing from his part; turns out getting a job without lying about his experience is quite harder than he thought it would be. An elderly cafe owner pats his head gently as he leaves, thanking him for coming, and by the time Donghyuck is walking back home the sun is beginning to set, gently pressing to the fabric of his clothes.

It's not a bad place to be in _,_ he guesses. The clothes are ugly and the apartment is old, dusty, but it's the world he was born into, and Donghyuck will never be able to reject it. He's crazy about this Earth of his — nowhere else feels as much of a home as it does now, especially after death. Perhaps Donghyuck didn't even mind Hell that much; perhaps he just didn't want to part with the Earth so soon when he picked that battle. It could be that, couldn't it? People often do crazy stuff for the things they're in love with.

The door creaks quietly against the wooden floor as Donghyuck walks into the apartment, quietly mouthing the lyrics to a song he heard on a retail store a block or two away from where he lives, formal shoes thumping the ground as he lets himself in. He takes them off mindlessly, feeling the particular smell of the late afternoon fill him up in helplessness, the entire world burning softly for a moment. It's so specific one couldn't write it down, or speak it aloud — but everyone knows what the late afternoon feels like, because universality is the premise of the human experience. That's something he's also in love with; _the human experience._ It's insane to him that some creatures just don't go through it.

He pads to the living room, eyes blinking lazily as he wonders what should he do to spend the rest of the day. There's a TV in the apartment, and while it may be quite old, Donghyuck is sure it works just the same, considering everything around here has been untouched for decades. He's about to throw himself on the couch when he notices Jaemin's kneeled form ahead of the closed glass door connected to the balcony, his forehead gently pressed to the material as his hands are clasped together in prayer, wings set free for once.

Donghyuck feels as if he's interrupting something from the moment he realizes Jaemin is praying, hesitantly stumbling back to hide himself behind the door, although curiosity wins over him fast enough. He peeks out to watch, in contained wonder, as the light filters through Jaemin's hair, the halo placed snugly on top of his head twinkling under the so called golden hour as if it had finally gotten a glimpse of Heaven for the first time in a while. Jaemin's skin glistens in a healthy tan as it reacts to the light, his entire body coming to life with the clasping of two palms, a religious experience in all it represents.

Donghyuck holds his breath, feeling both amazed and intensely intimidated by the fact that he is the obvious intruder in such an intimate scene. In ways he can't explain, Jaemin seems to be doing much more than _just_ praying — he seems to be coming home for a second, to be kindly sung to by the sun, to be braiding the light into the chunks of stray gray hair that seem to spike up from his locks. It's one of those miracles people often claim to see, but this time it's quite as real as the sea; alive and in color for Donghyuck's eyes to marvel at.

This is sympathizing with the enemy, that much he knows, but who wouldn't stop in their tracks to see an angel praying? Everyone would be alike to moths to a flame were they in his situation; he can't be blamed. He can't hear Jaemin's words clearly, nor he thinks they're in a language Donghyuck can understand; they come from the deep parts of the earth, spoken softly to make the ground shake and bend under their meanings, a long dead tongue only the angels could speak. It's sultry, inviting, like strange matter urging Donghyuck to _come closer, touch it, indulge in your wants,_ even though he knows he'll never be the same once his fingertips come in contact with it.

He thinks of something to say, but his mind doesn't really work the way he wants it to. In the end, Donghyuck ends up clumsily faking a cough, alarming the angel and making him shoot up to his feet, wings fluttering awake with a shiver.

It feels like dejavu. In one way or another, they're always on edge when the other walks into the room — as if they were both on the verge of a fist fight, like caged animals tensing up at the sight of one another; which is what they are, whether they accept it or not. The chains holding them back together are not going to disappear any sooner if they ignore them.

"Hi," he greets, awkwardly scratching at his elbow, acting the shiest he's ever seem himself be. "Sorry. For interrupting."

Jaemin frowns, as he often does when Donghyuck is around, and his heart squeezes painfully inside his chest at that observation. It's so ridiculous, so pathetic of him to even care about those things; Jaemin's validation means nothing to him.

"I was worried," the angel tells him, stumbling back against the armrest of the couch and sitting on it, hesitant as to where he should put his hands. Donghyuck watches them obsessively, as if his eyes couldn't bear to be away, and the words hit him harder than they should; _I was worried._ How long has it been since someone got worried about Donghyuck's wellbeing? "You were out for so long. I didn't know enough about the outside world to follow you."

"You don't have to follow me everywhere I go," comes out of his mouth before he registers, the same old rudeness of it all; Donghyuck is quite used to denying care. After seeing Jaemin's slight flinch, he answers: "I'm okay. I wasn't in danger; the outside is not as bad as you think it is."

It's full of death machines, violence and pollution, and they're certainly nothing Jaemin knows back from Heaven, but no harm should be done to him. It's not as if Donghyuck would let it, either way.

"I don't like humans," Jaemin steals a glance from the corner of his eye, as if searching for bruises on Donghyuck. He clutches his own elbow, apprehensively. "It's too noisy, you guys yell too much. It scares me."

And it's such an innocent thing to say, considering humanity has so many problems that could've been pointed out rather than "too noisy", but Jaemin doesn't know that — he doesn't know anything about the world outside from this ratty apartment, and suddenly Donghyuck realizes he must feel very lonely, even scared at times. He probably thought Donghyuck wouldn't come back.

"I know," he answers, sorry, although that could never be his fault. He's been acting too weird lately; he seems to be caring more than he used to before he died. "You'll have to come out of the apartment eventually, though. It would be a shame if you didn't."

"What do you mean?" the angel looks up at him, studying his features.

"Well, you know…" Donghyuck leans against the wall, protectively crossing his arms to shield himself from Jaemin's gaze. "There are things you'd like to see outside. Things you'd be sad to know you missed."

Jaemin shakes his head in denial. "I wouldn't be able to see it on my own. I'd get too scared."

And maybe that wasn't the best thing to say, because Donghyuck's heart strings gets pulled violently at the sound of his voice. "I'll take you out sometime," he says before he can stop himself, desperate to make the frown in Jaemin's face smaller; desperate to feel as if he wasn't the reasoning behind his disappointment.

Angels fuck up your head. Donghyuck is the living proof.

Still, Jaemin's face brightens in surprise, a smile pushing at the corner of his lips, and Donghyuck realizes he's never seen him smile before. It's blinding, secretive; like a bible. It lingers delicately at his fingertips, crumbling like pastries, the aftermath of a long night in all it communicates — Donghyuck tries to understand his language, but it doesn't work; they don't share a mother tongue.

"Are you sure?" the angel asks, excited like a child would be. He doesn't know what he's gotten himself into; doesn't know which type of knot he just securely tied.

"Yeah, I'm sure," Donghyuck promises nevertheless, because it's too late to go back now. He turns his gaze to the ground, avoiding the expectation emanating from Jaemin and the inevitable fear of ruining it. "What can I… um… Help you with? For dinner."

Jaemin smiles again, this time softer, and Donghyuck doesn't allow himself more than one glance at it. _That's his job,_ he remembers. It doesn't seem to less his amazement in the slightest. "I think I'm alright. Unless you have something in particular you want?" Jaemin cocks his head to the side in questioning.

He really does look like what Donghyuck thought an angel would be, but doesn't at the same time; Jaemin is perhaps the first thing from the afterlife that managed to surprise him. And anyways, this is something he's trying not to think too much of, but it's been too long since someone cooked for him, even longer since someone asked him about what he wanted. It sets him ablaze, mostly — in ways he'd like to not explain.

"No, I'm okay," he answers, giving the angel a tight lipped smile. Donghyuck doesn't like to ask for much once he's put in the spotlight; how ironic.

"Okay," the angel nods, smiling back.

Donghyuck wants to sog his body under the sunset, wants to give in and stay, but doesn't. Instead, he wordlessly walks to his bedroom, a glimpse of Heaven making its way around his neck like a necklace, a rope he ties and unties at each passing moment. It doesn't mean anything, though — Jaemin is naturally nurturing, and Donghyuck has never been nurtured like that before; he's estranged by it. The weird feeling sitting on the pit of his stomach will burn out soon enough, and Donghyuck will find another ways to cope with his sure doom. It's okay, really.

Mostly, Donghyuck is quiet, and mostly, Donghyuck is good. No matter what anyone has to say about him; deep down, he believes himself to be good, and truthful, and kind, and perhaps even lovable. Up until now, no one has seen it the way Donghyuck does, saved only by Jaemin. Jaemin, who takes care of him without knowing who or what hides underneath his skin, out of the simple belief that any being is good until proven the opposite. It's his job, for sure, and all of his life has given him the luxury of trusting people, but there's something sort of admirable about it still. He shakes his head as he comes in front of the mirror, tired eyes blinking back at his image lazily.

Maybe he's sympathizing with Jaemin too much. Maybe he should just hold his distance. He's losing track of who the enemy is; he's forgetting he's running _against_ Heaven, and not with it.

The next time he's out of his bedroom is not long after, boredom winning over him easily as he skims for the remote control between the sofa's cushions. Jaemin is in the kitchen now, Donghyuck can tell by the noise, and he notices to himself that the angel is gradually getting less and less clumsier with his wings, not as many furniture being left out on the floor for Donghyuck to fix. It's quite of a sad realization, for some reason.

There are not a lot of available channels — Donghyuck sets it to an old soap opera mindlessly, letting the background noise tuck him in comfortably like shitty TV programming usually does. He missed this, as well; it's bad, of course, but there's something familiar to it that keeps him glued in front of the screen, paying close attention to what's about to happen next.

Jaemin walks into the living room in quiet steps, and Donghyuck doesn't shoot up in shock this time. Instead, he lifts his eyes up just enough to greet the angel with a nod, watching as his lips form a small smile in response. They're not friends, but after being out for a while, Donghyuck realized he doesn't feel as caged as he did before; so that's probably why liking Jaemin is becoming easier to him at each passing minute. He's caught thinking that maybe this place might start to feel like home, after all.

The angel sits by the armrest he was leaning over earlier today, gently opening his wings to cushion his back and shield his body, quite as if it was a blanket, in order that Donghyuck almost misses the book between his hands, its hard cover spelling the words "Advanced Pastry Baking" in antique lettering. Jaemin reads it like it's fiction, but Donghyuck quickly recognizes it as a cooking book, glancing sideways at the pages and seeing multiple recipes for different pastries. _So this is where he's getting his recipes from,_ he thinks to himself, curiously peering over to see which page Jaemin has gotten so intensely focused on.

It's a bagel recipe, he reads, and there's not much to it besides instructions and a picture of what the final result should look like. Jaemin inspects it attentively, pointer finger hovering over a few words like "wheat", "flour", and, occasionally, "breakfast". He repeats it as if trying to make sense out of the term, gently scratching his nail under the syllables as he does so.

"What's kneading?" Jaemin suddenly asks, scaring Donghyuck out of his prying. The angel turns around, halo slightly twinkling under the living room lights. "It says here I should knead the dough. What's that?"

"It's like…" Donghyuck tries to think of an answer, pondering over what he knows about baking. It's not much, really; but at least he has a vague idea about kneading. "It's when you, um, work flour into the dough, I think. You press it down with your hands."

"Huh," the angel scoffs, long eyelashes forming delicately around brown eyes. "Everyday I learn something new."

For whatever reason, Donghyuck feels like smiling. "You do."

Jaemin hums, acknowledging his agreement, and goes back to reading. Silent falls over them again, which wouldn't feel so comfortable before, but it kind of does now; the only sound comes from the TV, the sitcom's laughing track filling up the room almost ironically, making a joke out of Donghyuck's easy surrender. Well, he's too familiar with this place to care — Donghyuck would easily spend the rest of his days here, on this couch, as Jaemin quietly reads beside him.

The angel speaks up again soon enough. "Can you raise plants here?" he asks, gently folding a dog ear on the page he was reading and closing the book to glance at Donghyuck.

Jaemin is very curious. The world around them seems to be an everlasting riddle he is still trying to figure out.

"I think so," the human answers, crossing his arms. "You have to buy seeds and pots and dirt, though."

"Oh, right," the angel deflates visibly. "I forgot you have to buy things to own them."

That spikes up Donghyuck's interest. "You don't buy things in Heaven?"

"No. I just.. Take them."

"And they let you?"

"I mean," Jaemin shyly scratches his nape. "It's for everyone to take. It belongs to no one. I don't take more than I need and neither does anyone else."

He's about to comment on how utopic it sounds, but is remembered quickly enough that Jaemin is coming directly from Heaven, a place where no money can get through. It's so foreign to Donghyuck he can't even conceive an image to go with Jaemin's description — what would the world be like were there no money, nothing to sell and nothing to own? Donghyuck doesn't know. Jaemin has seen things he can't even begin to imagine.

"Oh, wow…" he leans back against the couch, stunned. "I can't even imagine how that would look like."

The angel hesitantly reaches a hand to pat his thigh, his touch diminishing the weird feeling that's starting to settle inside Donghyuck's chest. It's very calming, relaxing: he starts to wish for Jaemin to never pull his hand away, but of course he does. "It's okay," he tells him, noticing the human's estrangement. "You're going to experience it soon."

And maybe it's just the optimism inside of Jaemin talking, but this is the first time anyone acts sure enough that Donghyuck will get into heaven, which moves him a bit. No one else believes in his goodness as much as Jaemin does; it's almost as if he's doing it on purpose.

"You really think I'm getting into Heaven?" Donghyuck asks, trying to pass off his hope as nonchalance. "Like, no cap?"

Jaemin does that thing he does when he's confused, gently leaning his head to the side. "I don't know what cap is to say I have none of it," the angel tells him, wings moving aflutter as he places his words carefully. Donghyuck rolls his eyes. "But I've been praying for it to happen, so yes, I do think you'll get into Heaven."

"Praying?" he repeats. "What's the use of praying?"

A slight disappointment pools over Jaemin's features, and Donghyuck thinks it's quite like looking down the barrel of a gun, the angel's validation something he never thought he needed until he lost it, and then he found himself desperately wanting it. Suddenly, the height of his regret for proffering those words is unknown.

"It's my only connection to home," Jaemin sighs, somewhat tediously; exasperated. "And it's what gets me through the day."

Right. Through the day. He almost forgets Jaemin's days are almost a quarantine.

"Um," Donghyuck awkwardly starts, feeling as if he was walking on eggshells. "I'm sorry. I didn't know."

"It's fine," the angel tells him, reopening his book, but Donghyuck doesn't feel as if it's fine.

The impossibly small amount of bonding they've done up until now feels very fragile to the touch. It's like the wind could blow in their way and break them apart as easily as delicate china, Jaemin's edges soft and round while Donghyuck's have been sharpened, ready to cut through flesh. If only it was as easy to befriend Jaemin as it is to upset him.

"I really am sorry, you know," he reinforces after a moment of silence, the night sky reflecting against the TV screen. "I don't know. It's just weird to me… I can't even fathom how life is to you."

Jaemin gives him a side look, face stoic. "You're weird to me too. I don't make sure to comment on it every time we're in the same room, though."

Donghyuck is about to defend himself by saying he doesn't comment on it as much as Jaemin thinks he does, but quickly realizes that, out of all of their interactions, only one wasn't sharply defined by their differences. He feels quite ashamed, then — he's been expecting Jaemin to act human when he's clearly not even close to knowing what that looks like, and Donghyuck hasn't offered him any guidance other than answering to his trivial questions.

He also doesn't fail to notice how often he has to apologize to Jaemin for being insensitive.

"I'm sorry," Donghyuck repeats himself. "I'm very sorry, Jaemin."

"Okay?" the angel blinks, clearly bothered still. "I don't have to accept it."

"You don't," the human nods. "But I'm still sorry. I know it's hard for you to act human—"

"I don't want to act human!" he exclaims, then, clapping his book closed with a loud bang. "I want you to stop expecting me to."

And while Donghyuck can understand where he's coming from, it's hardly ever that he lets someone speak to him like that. "Wow, Jeez, then while we're at it you should stop acting like we're dirt underneath the sole of your divine feet."

"I never said that!" Jaemin's face blushes in anger, his eyebrows furrowing ever so slightly and his voice the loudest Donghyuck has ever heard. Distantly, he thinks there's something slightly attractive about it — the red matches him well, perhaps even more than the white of his wings.

"You don't have to! You think you're above us!" He pushes further, only a half truth. Donghyuck doesn't think Jaemin believes them all to be trash, but he does think the angel finds himself to be superior than mankind; which he is, but shouldn't boast about.

"I don't!" The angel groans, annoyed.

There's something slightly attractive about that, as well. Donghyuck likes to know he can make an angel this angry — but maybe it's not just any angel as it is Jaemin, specifically.

"Then stop acting like it!" Donghyuck exclaims.

Jaemin huffs heavily, getting up from the couch and stomping to his bedroom, wings shivering in anger as the human watch them disappear under the dark hallway. Once he's far enough, it's hard to not start laughing — Jaemin is too easy to rile up; he always thinks he has the moral high ground over everyone.

His anger doesn't quite last long enough, though. About three hours later, the angel pads into the room with a sorry scowl, Donghyuck having not moved an inch from the TV to acknowledge his presence. He wonders to himself if there are fights in Heaven, but that feels quite useless to think about; of course not. Jaemin is experiencing it for the first time.

The angel leans against the doorway, watching Donghyuck with a guilty frown. His face is squished against the doorframe, the faint light of the TV making his features all dark and gloomy under purple shadows. It's not often he has such a feeling, but watching him there, Donghyuck almost wishes he was a painter — were he to know the mysteries and wonders of art, he'd sketch Jaemin's face right in this moment and secure it from the tricks of time, the dark blue dazzle embedded in the wrinkle between his eyebrows. Even now, Jaemin is so beautiful; it breaks Donghyuck's heart that some beauties are not meant to be kept.

"Donghyuck," he calls, perhaps the first time he's ever addressed him with his first name. It sounds nice sliding off his lips, as if it was a dead language only the two of them knew. "I'm sorry for having been rude towards humans."

He turns his eyes to Jaemin slightly, but doesn't say anything else. It's hard to find the right words when he's around.

"And I know," the angel sighs. "That this is your world and your people and I'm sure it must be thrilling to be with them again," his voice comes out choked, heavy with a sadness Donghyuck has never heard from him before. It breaks his heart. "But _I'm_ away from _my_ home… And I just… It's very hard to love a place when you're away from all you know."

At that, Donghyuck's stoic behavior softens into something he's never felt in life, sympathy for the angel's situation filling him up in ways it has never before. All of a sudden, he wants to unwind the sadness out of Jaemin like a wire, to carry it to himself and desperately easen the burden, but wanting to do something often doesn't mean being able to do it. Donghyuck would've brought Heaven down to Earth in that moment, would've thrown a hook to the sky and pulled it down through a fishnet if it meant Jaemin's suffering would come to cease.

Quietly, and mostly to himself, he wonders if he's starting to like the angel a little bit more than he should.

"I know," Donghyuck tells him, turning his entire body around to face Jaemin. It seems to please the angel, because he smiles lightly, although it's watery and somewhat melancholic. Still, he looks like he enjoys seeing Donghyuck in his line of vision; as if saying _this I know. This I love._ "I'm sorry I can't… You know, help you with that. And I'm sorry for being a dick, too. We can be… Friends, if you want to."

His smile widens considerably. Donghyuck can breathe in peace, then. "It's fine. I know you're going through your own stuff."

If it were someone else, if it were a different Donghyuck, there wouldn't be such a urge to make Jaemin happy burning inside of him. They'd be at peace then — Jaemin would go on with his life and so would he, and they'd never talk about this again, but that's not quite what Donghyuck wants anymore; he's had a change of heart.

"Have you ever eaten ice cream before?"

And, well, that's how Donghyuck finds himself gathered around an ice cream shop's television with a bunch of strangers, Jaemin distractedly munching on his mint and chocolate ice cream as they all watch a televised homage to victims of a recent fire that took down a dozen or so people in less than an hour. The news have been all over the county lately, a painful reminder that, despite all efforts, life is still as delicate as the breath of wind and as the dandelion unfolding under it; they're all sitting silently as the reporter interviews victims' relatives and loved ones, their teary words resonating deeply within the establishment and echoing from every corner, like a melancholic opera running up the walls.

An elderly man begins to quietly weep to himself, his beret pressed to his nose as to not make any sounds and interrupt the unmoving silence pairing over them, a sign of deep respect for the grief so explicitly shown on the screen. The young lady working at the register kindly offers him her handkerchief, a sorry smile sitting on pink colored lips, and he takes it gladly, softly sobbing over a woman's boyfriend's snotty speech. A mother and her daughter sit modestly to the corner of the room, their hands clasped in prayer as to wish the dead souls a good journey to Heaven, hoping that their pain should be eased and their burn scars removed by the touch of the angels. Jaemin's ears perk up at their words, tapping his fingers against the counter incessantly as if he wanted to say something, and Donghyuck is quick to put his hand over the angel's, offering him a warning glance.

The couple sitting next to them sends them a weirded out look, and despite himself, Donghyuck moves in his seat to cover Jaemin's body with his own, making the angel disappear from their line of vision as a scowl grows on his features. A few other people start to weep as they move to the younger victims' parents and friends, the atmosphere getting impossibly heavier as they're all reminded of the imminent possibility of an early death to their sons, daughters and siblings — the avoided fact that, to meet Death, you only need to be alive; meaning it knows no limits of age.

It's quite of a weird feeling, though, to be between these people and have known the afterlife — Donghyuck is weirdly desensitized to it now that he knows that life always finds a way to go on, even after death. It makes him wonder if any of these people went to Hell, and he assumes that at least one of them had to; Jaemin seems to be thinking the same thing as he gapes at the screen, lost in thought with his temple resting against his closed fist, the light from the window cascading over his face and making it the dazzle of diamonds were it a living creature.

"It's weird, isn't it?" he scoots closer to the angel, whispering out of habit. It's not as if anyone would overhear them, anyways — everyone is far too busy paying attention to the TV. "To see it and know there's still life after death."

Jaemin doesn't even spare him a glance as he answers, still dazed by the mother's gleeful prayers. "No, not at all," he answers, a glimpse of his halo making him glisten under the streetlights. "It's beautiful to see humans who are so tender in their grief try and make sense out of death, don't you think?"

"It quite is," Donghyuck studies the angel's characteristics, gently blinking around the unimaginable light coming from him, once again reminded that his eyes still need some time to adjust. "It makes me want to reach out and tell them, though."

"It would do more harm than good," Jaemin shakes his head. He looks so mature, then — the clueless angel Donghyuck has met before is nowhere to be seen, being replaced by understanding eyes and the lingering feeling of wiseness that gives out how old Jaemin's soul actually is. _You can take the angel out of Heaven…_ "They'd stress their little hummingbird hearts over it far too much for it to be worth it." And the angels says it so fondly that Donghyuck has to look away, cheeks heating up.

He doesn't know what else there is to say after that. Donghyuck supposes Jaemin is right — the living _are_ tender in their grief, yet perhaps just as much as any other creature would be. But then again, it's not often you see dead animals surrounded by flowers and letters once they're found rotting; only the human do so, because only the human have such an intimate relationship with their own mortality, to the point it is as celebrated as it is dreaded upon. There's some beauty in that, as well, but Donghyuck can't pinpoint what it is about it that settles back so warmly in his heart.

Maybe it's because Jaemin noticed it, and he feels quite proud of himself for being part of something much bigger than his own little body. Maybe it's because the weeping elderly man is gently pressing a black and white picture of a woman to his chest, and it feels as if watching a visual story unfold in front of his eyes, no words needed to figure out why he resonates with a lover's pain so ardently. This brand of human loveliness is in a lot of little things people often forget — how they recoil their feet to themselves in the movies as they see someone else approaching, how "bless you!" is heard from the other side of the restaurant when someone sneezes, how you can find smiley faces on dirty car windows as easily as you can find clouds on the sky. Human beings aren't inherently evil, Donghyuck thinks to himself; they're actually quite adorable once you come to think of it.

Still, he doesn't think anyone's love has outlasted his death. Even his mother, someone who would've probably been upset at the news of Donghyuck's life coming to an end, is not someone he can imagine weeping so intensely over his casket — actually, now that he thinks of it, Donghyuck finds it hard to believe that anyone cried over him at all. No one would've missed him to the point of tears.

But then he moves his head slightly to the side, Jaemin's glassy eyes coming into his vision, teary and flushed in a delicate, angry red. He looks as if he doesn't even know what he's angry about, but Donghyuck can see it as clear as day — it's the fact Jaemin can do nothing about their pain that makes him so frustrated. He is useless in this moment, and that is why Donghyuck believes he is in so much pain.

Jaemin would miss him were he to die now. He wouldn't have anyone to cook for, then; neither would he have someone to clean up the messes he leaves behind, or someone to answer his questions, or someone to fight with, or someone to pray for. If Donghyuck died tomorrow, Jaemin would weep at his casket — he'd weep like a little kid. They've grown to depend on each other far too much; much more than they'd like to admit.

And anyways, Jaemin is _so_ good. He'd grieve over a dead bug if it meant it would make its death more meaningful.

The commotion dies a few moments later, when the news switch to yet another report on a car crash nearing the city's main avenue. After sharing such a moment of vulnerability with a group of strangers, the ones who cried are quietly crowded by clients, offering them sorry smiles and warm hugs as to make up for the pain. Human beings are kind, then — kinder than most species, kinder than you'd expect them to be. Jaemin extends his already long neck to watch them, the same twinkle in his eyes showing that kindness, as much as it is to the human, is irresistible to him. He pays attention to it almost unrelentingly, the ice cream melting where it sits close to his hands, the heat emanating from them making it hard for Donghyuck to avoid his eyes.

Jaemin's neck is long, smooth, bumpy with his Adam's apple. It's elegant; Donghyuck could see him in fine jewelry, dipped in one too many shiny things to count, fine like Heaven's spokesman on Earth should be. He'd look quite like God, then — handsome, in a tailored suit, knowing he disposes of more power than anyone in the room could even begin to fathom. It's not often Jaemin falls under the sin of pride, but he'd look absolutely stunning if he did it time and again for Donghyuck's eyes only. He supposes it's kind of nice to know your one life partner is powerful in all the ways one can be; Donghyuck has never once said he wasn't of the imperious type of person.

"Eat your ice cream," he tells Jaemin, bringing him back to reality. The angel blinks at him through long eyelashes, and Donghyuck resists the urge to roll his eyes: "It's gonna melt."

He brings a spoonful to his lips, his eyes flickering between the scene and Donghyuck as if they didn't know where to rest on. "It's so pretty," Jaemin says through a mouthful, his nose flushed red, like a strawberry. It's kind of insane to think that there's no food as cold as ice cream in Heaven — Jaemin keeps sneezing. "I love the outside, Donghyuck."

Donghyuck is quickly reminded of how Jaemin clutched his arm nervously as they walked a few blocks down the apartment to get to this place, the angel's eyes scanning the place fearfully as he managed to merge himself into the human for protection. "No, you don't. You love humans, which is different."

"Fair enough," he answers, still distracted. Jaemin is witty, Donghyuck came to realize; he's got quite the smart mouth. "But still… Nothing here to fear. We're all made of the same neutrons and electrons… And you know, things. Things that make other things."

The human chuckles. "I don't think you know what you're talking about."

"Excuse you," Jaemin gasps offendedly. "I know the stardust that turned you into what you are intimately!"

And Donghyuck is sure he does, but he's too cheeky to be taken seriously as the celestial body that he is. Maybe it's the humanoid figure that makes Jaemin so… Endearingly harmless — with his cartoon eyes and round cheeks, it's hard to see him for the place he came from rather than where he is now. Donghyuck is caught thinking that, if Jaemin was human, they'd probably have went to middle school together.

"If you say so," he chuckles to himself again, not paying it much mind. Jaemin hmphs at him, but is back to his ice cream in no time; he doesn't care much about what Donghyuck thinks.

And it’s alright that he doesn’t. Come to think of it, it would be lonely to spend so much time with someone who agrees to everything Donghyuck says, with little argument; but since Jaemin is so set on being disagreeable, it feels almost as if he puts effort into shaping Donghyuck to his likings, which does not feel as scary as it seems. And, anyways: Disagreement is the front door to conversation, what is maybe the only — and most aggressive — weapon one has against loneliness.

There is just that about Jaemin, Donghyuck supposes. When he opens his mouth, or bats his eyelashes, or taps his fingers against a surface, he eases the lonesome ways of Donghyuck’s heart — something he might have not noticed before, but does now. It is but fascinating to ponder on how easy it is to fall prey to solitariness, even when one is surrounded; Donghyuck is caught thinking that there should always be a knot of loneliness within people, even if just so someone can untie it.

As he observes Jaemin’s lack of attention to his ice cream, absolutely fascinated by a world he does not belong to, it does make sense that some voids are only there to be filled, and that some wounds exist only to be tended to.

The walk back home is easy, light; another one of life’s little pleasures. Above all else, Jaemin is a delight to sore eyes, the few last sunbeams catching up to his skin and making it almost translucent, complimenting all there is to admire. The light braids itself to his features and amongst his pores, belonging in its original meaning, and Donghyuck is — well, Donghyuck is enchanted. And he has been enchanted; for the past weeks. There is some grace to both the view and the admirer: a silent understanding that this, too, is more than what the eyes lead on.

Jaemin turns to him abruptly, the clumsiness of his movements all that familiar. Donghyuck has met many, many smooth lovers in his lifetime — none of them have ever compared to the sight in front of him. “Aren’t you bored of staring yet?” He asks, seemingly swelling up in sunshine.

And, anyways: Jaemin is ox eyed, rosy-fingered, gentle-lived, soft spoken and way out of his league for it to be an issue. “I was not staring,” Donghyuck lies in a mumble.

“Then what were you doing?” Jaemin insists, resuming their stroll. “In Heaven we call that staring.”

“In the human world we call that—” Donghyuck starts, not even sure of where that sentence would end. He sighs, knowing the battle was lost before it even started. “Not staring.”

And as predictable as the waves of the ocean, Jaemin cocks his head to the side in confusion. Sometimes you observe someone so much they end up a part of your brain. “Are you sure?” He asks.

Donghyuck has never been sure; he thought that was Jaemin’s job. “Yes.” He scrunches his nose up, feet moving by instinct.

The angel catches up only a few instants after, a toned giggle to his voice as if dripping honey and vodka, the only thing Donghyuck can’t rest in a world full of temptations. “I’m _soooorry_ ,” he sing songs. Jaemin doesn’t know discretion or moderation. “I was just joking.”

“I know,” he answers, allowing the wind to wash over the uneasiness of his heart. It does not matter what one wants; it matters what they do to keep themselves from it. “I was staring.”

Jaemin squeals in achievement. “See! You were staring! Was there a bug on my face? I noticed they’re more attracted to me than they are to you.”

 _Because you’re an angel,_ Donghyuck thinks, but there’s much more to it. Jaemin is not good because he’s an angel, he reluctantly accepted; Jaemin is an angel _because_ he is good. Like that, it’s easy to understand why every living creature seems to be violently yanked towards him through the hands of fate — Donghyuck included.

“I think they know you’re not from here,” Donghyuck estates, swiftly walking past their building’s front door as Jaemin struggles to catch up this time. “They’re curious as to what are you.”

“And what do you think I am?” The angel asks when they’re walking upstairs, a slight fatigue to his voice that makes Donghyuck believe this human body is not quite what he bargained for.

“I think…” He answers, pressing his lips into a thin line. “You’re annoying, but great at baking.”

Jaemin chuckles, overjoyed, and his laugh echoes against the entire building. “Why, thank you.”

“You’re welcome.”

And he is, Donghyuck notices distantly — more than anyone has ever been, he is welcome. Jaemin meets no reluctance in how he seems to simply walk past Donghyuck’s larger-than-life walls, and the thing is that he doesn’t resent it; not really, not by a little, not at all.

What a danger Jaemin is to human health, he thought to himself.

The little bit of confraternization they had landed Donghyuck what quickly came to be his only — and perhaps most genuine — friendship from this life to the other, but he suspects Jaemin is just unbelievably hard to dislike for too long. Some creatures are just created to be adored, and they walk the Earth much more than one would expect.

He bakes for Donghyuck by morning, and accepts cooking advice by night, carefully watching as the human shakingly throws in some spices on a pan, hoping he doesn’t come off as confused as he feels. They watch television way too much, and play cards when there’s nothing else left to watch; Donghyuck always wins, but he’s starting to think Jaemin does it on purpose. All in all, life is endurable — or at least easy, which it often isn’t. Donghyuck can’t remember ever being this peaceful.

And, well. Sometimes his heart still aches absurdly for the life he had before and the people he would never get to see again, and anxiety burns within him from the prospect of being sent to Hell again, but Jaemin eases it all as well as he can by just standing there, hands on his hips, complaining loudly about the stove and how human creations are terrible for management. God might have given him a house, but Jaemin has made it a home; Donghyuck has given up on denying it to himself.

But peace is fragile, and peace is rare, and the human heart doesn’t quite know what to do with itself once it isn’t growing attached to another’s like ever expanding vine. Donghyuck should’ve known it: No one could pay that much attention to someone and still believe it to be anything short of endearment, though its romantic aspect might be a first. Yes, yes — Donghyuck _likes_ Jaemin. He’s too afraid to say the other word.

And since this life is all he has, there doesn’t seem to be anything stopping him from nurturing this feeling. It’s astonishing how easy emotions turn once they’re the last thing you have to hold on to; Donghyuck has never met love with such peace before. Because Jaemin is here, and he knows, and he cares, there doesn’t seem to be a downside to liking him; only, maybe, the prospect of not knowing romantic intimacy, but there’s only so much Donghyuck can wish for. As he well knows, Jaemin is way out of his league to take this anywhere but to the grave.

Who needs things like kisses and hugs when Jaemin smiles like that, with all his teeth, overjoyed and earthy like nature itself? Donghyuck does, but it doesn’t matter. It shouldn’t matter.

It does, but it shouldn’t.

“Hey! Are you paying attention?” Jaemin asks, clinking his fork against the bottom of his plate, steel against porcelain.

Donghyuck sobers up immediately, nodding. “Yeah, yeah — you’re super right about the, uh… Thingy…”

The angel shakes his head slowly, in disdain. “I was saying it’s weird that human beings paint angels like fat little white babies.”

“Well, were you never a baby?” He leans his head to the side, an habit picked up. “People thought babies were the epitome of innocence, and so were angels. So it fits.”

Jaemin’s face softens considerably. “Of course I was a baby once,” he answers in a soft breath, playing with his left over pasta. Donghyuck finished his food long ago; he just likes the company. “But we don’t look like that. Not even as babies, though I suppose there is not a way you guys could’ve known.”

“Well, ask the painters, not me,” Donghyuck sips on his glass of water, noticing how lukewarm it has become. “I didn’t care for angels before.”

Bringing his food to his mouth, Jaemin hums. “And you care for angels now?”

He shrugs. “Suppose I do.”

But of course he does, and of course Jaemin knows.

“It’d be nice if you did,” the angel nonchalantly comments over a sip of soda — the one human treat he seems to obsess over. “And, well, anyways; childhood in Heaven is not like that. It’s like…”

“Is it beautiful?” Donghyuck asks, eager to know.

Jaemin seems taken aback. “Quite. It’s, well, uh…” He scratches his nape shyly. “I think so. We don’t really… Call things beautiful.”

“What do you mean?”

“It’s just that Heaven is beautiful. That is a fact. So everything is. And if everything is—”

“Then nothing is.” He nods. Then adds, in disbelief: “No one has ever called you beautiful? Or anything of the sort?”

Jaemin shyly shakes his head. “No. It wouldn’t be a compliment; it’d be just, like… A statement, I guess.”

“Oh, wow.” Uncharacteristically of him, Donghyuck aches. The leap of faith is always the hardest one to make through. “I think… Um. I think you’re beautiful.”

“Thank you,” the angel chuckles, albeit fondly. Donghyuck avoids his eyes. “You don’t have to say that to make me feel better.”

“But I’m not,” he insists. “You’re beautiful.”

"Alright," Jaemin nods in understanding. There's a hint of a blush on his cheeks, rosy-revelled and ever changing, the repeated image of flower petals a few seconds before their majestic bloom. Donghyuck doesn't think too much of it; it's better not to. The angel keeps talking, seemingly unbothered: "Thank you. After all this time spent on Earth, I'm not sure if beautiful is what I want to be, anyways."

"Why is that?" Donghyuck asks, quickly changing subjects to avoid the consequences proceeding of his words.

Jaemin shrugs, finally taking the last bite of his food. "There are better things to be, I think."

"Isn't that right?" Donghyuck hums. On instinct, he reaches out to Jaemin's empty plate and grabs it, gently starting to wash it as soon as he gets to the sink. The angel just hums back, not startled by the attentive behavior. "What other things do you want to be, if not beautiful?"

When was the last time Donghyuck washed a plate for someone else — when was the last time he ever cared that much?

"I don't know yet," Jaemin starts to undo the table, folding the cloth to his chest as gentle as he is. The quiet hum of night colors the air delicately, and the stars manifest themselves inside their apartment through peppermint scented tealights, their dazzle reflecting against Jaemin's round eyes. He was fascinated by them the moment Donghyuck brought them home — it got the latter wondering if there wasn't something as mundanely petite as tealights in Heaven. "There are things in the human world that are too vast to be explained. I don't think I could explain them in just one unified term."

Despite the rapid burning of his heart, Donghyuck chuckles. "Then use more than a term. Use an entire paragraph if you want to."

The angel is behind him at sudden, steps so quiet Donghyuck would've missed them if it weren't for the tender exhales of breath that always tell him Jaemin is around. He reaches over to Donghyuck and places his utensils and glass next to the sink, seemingly in thought.

"I think… If I could choose, I'd really enjoy to be told that I'm like the way ice cream melts, you know?" He answers, stepping away to lean against the opposite counter to Donghyuck's direction. "But not _just_ it; the things that cause it too. The entire feeling of… Not paying attention, and then you do, and you find out there is something absolutely delightful right under your nose, even if just a little bit crooked. I want that, I guess. That little bubble of joy."

"You're right, that _is_ very specific," Donghyuck taps his fingers against the sink distractedly. He doesn't want to point out that " _not paying attention, and then you do, and you find out there is something absolutely delightful right under your nose_ " could not describe Jaemin any better, because he is too scared to even tell it to himself. "I can't say I don't understand. I wish people would just randomly hit me up and tell me I'm like a homemade blondie time and again."

Jaemin giggles. "What's a blondie?"

"It's a dessert, but also a punk rock band from the seventies," he turns around to meet the angel's eyes, hips leaning against the counter. "I really like both."

"That's a good variety of meanings to have under the same name," the angel compliments, smile breezy and delicate. His eyes are the size of the moon, black like jabuticabas and steady like blackthorn trees. Donghyuck could — would, should — give the remaining drops of youth in his body to Jaemin's eyes, given he's certain that they'd handle them with the utmost care. "I'll make you some blondies tomorrow. And we can listen to Blondie, if you'd like."

Something within him stirs and trembles, though Donghyuck has no time to inspect it. "And we could watch _A Place in The Sun._ "

"Yeah." Jaemin's smile widens. "Tomorrow will be fun."

Donghyuck smiles back, albeit smaller, albeit softer. "It will."

The angel excuses himself to his room on the premise of taking a shower, another one of his interests on the mundane realities of humanity, and Donghyuck gulps down a lifetime of peppermint candles. Tomorrow — he thinks to himself. How graceful it is; the promise of a tomorrow. Donghyuck has never been so grateful for it.

Soon enough, tomorrow comes in the shape of a flickering two in the morning. The television plays a rerun of a movie Donghyuck has seen one too many times, and Jaemin is slowly but surely falling prey to exhaustion, though he swears on God he isn't. His blinks seem to happen in slow motion, a miracle of movement, and his lips open on a symphony of yawns more often than not. There seems to be an entire orchestra within Jaemin's bloodline, given the way sounds seeps through him by mild heaving or loud laughing, no in between.

"You're falling asleep," he murmurs, tapping Jaemin on his nose.

The angel whines, batting Donghyuck's hand away. "I'm not."

"But you are," comes out of his mouth softly, barely any bite to it. Donghyuck is not proud of his weak ways; though he can't say he regrets it. "Don't you want to go to bed?"

"No," Jaemin shakes his head decisively.

"Alright, then," Donghyuck snickers, turning his eyes back to the screen. "You'll pass out in no time."

And pass out Jaemin does. On top of Donghyuck, arms thrown around his neck and cheek squished against his shoulder, almost as if there was not a single problem in the world that could not be solved tomorrow. He lazily stretches himself all over Donghyuck's body, covering it like a blanket, and a heart is never a heart if it's not violently beating at the sweet scent of a lover. Donghyuck's foolish ways, and his inability to keep still — what would get him killed first?

He tentatively raises out a hand, letting it meet the top of Jaemin's head and carve through his hair gingerly, a light scratch to the tip of his fingers. The angel burrows closer, mumbling on his sleep, and Donghyuck's breath gets caught somewhere in his throat. Whatever it was that was supposed to happen between him and Jaemin, this is certainly far from it; this is uncharted territory, and a point of no return. This is love, and love is a place Donghyuck should've been locked out of — though Jaemin had let him in, and now there seems to be a deviation on Heaven's original plan.

It's in moments like these Donghyuck realizes he has to be good in order to keep this, whatever it is. He has to eat well, love kindly, and do enough good so that he can live to tell what Jaemin and him might become. And, well — Jaemin breaks his heart; but only so that light gets in, in the most blissful ways, until Donghyuck finds no use to keeping it closed ever again.

Late night television runs often end up like this, but tonight feels particularly hard to wrap his head around. Time is pliable and at its softest core, synchronized to Jaemin's breathing, and Donghyuck allows himself to close his eyes peacefully, lulled by the gentle shimmer of comfort. His back is going to be sore tomorrow, and Jaemin is going to chuckle at his complainings, but it'll be worth it — by then, he'd be cracked open easily, and Jaemin's fingers would work wonders down his spine, curating enough mana to make him forget that pain was ever felt.

And, anyways: tomorrow will be fun. Tomorrow, tomorrow — where has it been, and where it'll take him?

Apparently, to lazy mornings and the kind fluttering of Jaemin's wings against his face, their white immensity coming to wrap around Donghyuck's body gingerly. It seems unconscious, clumsy; but appreciated nonetheless. It cages him against the ratty couch, serving as a blanket, but Jaemin allows it to delicately — and hesitantly, like a scared animal — touch Donghyuck's face, a light caress to its slow tapping. On his sleepy haze, it's so hard to tell it apart from love. It's so hard to tell it apart from anything good, and pure, and true.

"Wake up," Jaemin murmurs between bold yawns, though he doesn't move from his position. When his voice gets out of the tricky paths of his mouth, it sounds just a bit like angels singing from above — as if Jaemin was still connected to Heaven in the late morning light, unable to part from his goodwill. "It's almost noon."

Donghyuck groans something unintelligible, forcing his eyes shut. The image of Jaemin this early in the morning, while pleasant, is too bright for humanely sights; it burns his retina. The angel lowly snickers at his reaction, burying his face into Donghyuck's chest.

"Come on, you still have to show me what your _Blondie_ is," he whines, tapping against Donghyuck's arms incessantly.

"Then get your wings off me," Donghyuck points out, blindly reaching a hand to grab the edge of Jaemin's right wing.

At that, the angel's head shoots up, embarrassed. "Ah, I'm sorry." The angel slowly flexes them up, leaning against the heel of his hands to get himself off of Donghyuck. The warmth is well missed and longed for; it doesn't matter. "Better?"

"Yeah, thank you," he lies through his teeth, estranged by his own reluctance to let Jaemin go. Donghyuck reaches a hand out again, and Jaemin takes it as a clue to pull him up to his feet, the delicate tug of his hands a dream he'd spend forever chasing after. "Alright, well — blondies, you see, are just white brownies. And Blondie… I think we can use the player, if it works."

Jaemin shakes his head nonchalantly. "It does. I checked yesterday for the vinyls too; in case we needed to buy more."

Donghyuck nods. Jaemin controls all the money, mainly because he is the only one receiving it, from God knows where. "Alright. Then… White brownies?"

The angel laughs. "White brownies it is," his smile softens slightly, back turned to the early noon sunlight. "Good morning, Donghyuck. I hope this day is easy on you."

"I hope it's easy on you too."

He gave up on trying to understand Jaemin's preaching long ago — now he just repeats them back, because it seems to make him happy.

To part from him in the name of grabbing a bunch of vinyls they found hidden under Jaemin's (admittedly empty) closet is to give himself a short breather from the ever recurring heart palpitations. The box is heavy and full to the brim with long forgotten dust, but the ones tagged _Blondie_ in red sharpie are separated on a pile near Jaemin's bed, delicately dusted off and neatly organized. It's somewhat adorable that he organized this beforehand so they could listen to them together, but Donghyuck doesn't want to think much of it.

He adjusts the vinyl player as Jaemin starts to separate the ingredients, tapping it a few times to get it working. Surely enough, Debbie Harry's voice fills up the apartment, howbeit old the vinyl might be. The first verses of 'Platinum Blonde' are coughed out from the player, but it stabilizes soon enough for it to not be a problem. As he sits by the kitchen, watching Jaemin carefully work on his first batch of blondies, it feels impossible to not hum along to the song and to the sun, who always seems to find them, even in the harshest realities.

"Who are these people?" Jaemin asks, voice mild and tender as he stirs a mixture of brown sugar and melted butter by hand. "The people she's singing about. Who are they?"

Donghyuck leans his head against his closed fist, watching him with interest. "Huh?"

"Marilyn, Jeane, Jeyne, Mae, Marlene — who are these people?" He repeats himself, quoting the lyrics of the song as he whisks together a few dry ingredients onto another bowl. Jaemin is not an expert, but he's been getting better with practice; Donghyuck adores him.

"Oh. They're famous actresses," he explains, popping a spoon of pure brown sugar onto his mouth. "They're all platinum blondes; that's why she says their names."

Jaemin bats his hands away from the pot of brown sugar, frowning. "That's bad for you, I've read. Your little human heart is going to explode."

Donghyuck offers him a cheeky grin. "It would explode one way or another, sweetheart."

And it would, but he knows Jaemin doesn't like it when he says it like that. His soon expiring mortality doesn't scare him, but it seems to make Jaemin sad; so they don't talk about it. The angel's frowns deepens: "Don't say that."

With his apron tied tightly around his neck and his hands on his hips, he looks so much like a mother it's hard to avoid his condemning stare. Once again, Jaemin's approval seems to matter a little bit more than what it's worth.

"Sorry, sorry," he raises his hands in the air, like a bandit would. "I forget you don't like that. Forgive me my faults, darling, I'd hate to infuriate you."

"Now you're just being stupid," Jaemin turns his attention away from Donghyuck, continuing the recipe.

Impulsively and out of pure instinct, Donghyuck rests his forehead against Jaemin's chest, lightly nuzzling. The apron smells like sugar and flour, gently staining his nose, but the angel doesn't seem to mind the affection — he continues to whisk eggs onto his dry mixture, allowing Donghyuck to do as he pleases. He'd willingly sink into Jaemin's sternum and become one with his skin were this option given to him, but there's more to it than just a wish to be close; if he hid himself into Jaemin tight enough, then maybe whatever it is that's hunting him down might miss him.

"Clingy today," the angel hums, voice coming out a decibel over a whisper. He puts a hand under Donghyuck's chin, holding it in place, and pulls himself away for a second to grab a baking tray they bought together, settling it against the counter as he lets Donghyuck's head fall against his chest once again. "I think this is going to taste nice."

"I know it's going to," comes out from his mouth, muffled by the apron. "I like this song."

"It's pleasant." Jaemin mindlessly answers, combining the ingredients of both bowls together and stirring them almost furiously. Donghyuck watches his hands work, slightly impressed. "Can you— Can you move your head? Sorry, I have to put it in the oven."

Donghyuck straightens up, watching Jaemin as he opens the oven door and shoves the tray inside, closing it delicately as to not make any noises. Jaemin is like that, Donghyuck noticed — he doesn't like loud noises, big messes, and most dairy products. But he does like birds, and baking, and pointing out dead movie stars he met in Heaven while they're watching reruns.

There is no one else, from this world to the next, that even slightly resembles Jaemin. There is no one else like him.

Donghyuck jumps out of his seat, a new song bubbling up against the atmosphere like heated glass, red and angry and impossible to ignore. It's not Blondie — wherever these vinyls came from, they're most likely a copyright infringement of some sort. It's okay, though; some songs you can know by heart, whether you've listened to them a thousand times or never at all.

He offers a hand to Jaemin, tentatively shaking it. "Can I have this dance?"

Jaemin laughs freely, throwing his head back in glee as if no one else has ever been as funny. Donghyuck likes make him laugh. "Wait, let me take this apron off." He turns around, the knot of his apron standing prettily at the base of his neck. "Untie me?" He asks, and Donghyuck would never say no.

He unties the knot, letting his fingertips linger on the warm skin of Jaemin's nape a bit too long. For a brief second, he wondered if Jaemin could read minds — and if he could, what would he think of the ever blooming blush on his face, not only outside but all over his body, the entire multitude of his organs tinted a rosy shade of carmine?

The apron slides from his body carefully, and Jaemin throws it away as if it wasn't worth even a small patch of his interest. Then he turns back around, grin the size of the sun and twice as shiny, grabbing Donghyuck's hand out of a sudden. "Alright, you may have this dance now."

It's clumsy, because Jaemin has two left feet and Donghyuck hasn't danced for the last thousand years, but that's what happens — all creatures, even in death, eventually fall prey to the inherent, inevitable joy of dancing, whether by themselves or joined by others. Of course, the inevitable hardly ever feels inevitable; human nature is so well hidden within bodies it becomes a surprise once it seeps through.

He twirls Jaemin with one hand, and lets himself be twirled with the other. Whatever song it is, it doesn't matter — it could play forever on the back of his head, muffling out his thoughts, and Donghyuck wouldn't mind, wouldn't care. The only thing he can hear, and smell, and feel, and see is love; lots of it, towering over every other bad thing that has ever happened to him.

Love... There is some grace to it. Jaemin loves him, not because of, but spite everyone else that hasn't.

And, well, Donghyuck is not the smartest. He loves not wisely, but too well. "Jaemin," he calls, letting his hands fall from his shoulders to his torso, lightly squeezing. "I have to ask you something."

The angel steps impossibly closer, taking Donghyuck's hands as a clue to fit his chin against his shoulder, arms resting around his neck. Jaemin has no parameters, no limits, no moderation — all he knows is to love and to be loved. "What is it?" He asks, trying to lead the dance. It doesn't work quite well, but Donghyuck doesn't mind following his steps.

"What would you do…" He starts, tapping his fingers against Jaemin's side anxiously. "If I, well… If I kissed you?"

The angel hums in thought. "Where?"

Donghyuck blinks. "On the lips."

He expects for a big reaction, but it doesn't come — instead, Jaemin cuddles closer, melting against his shoulder. "I don't know. You'd have to do it to find out."

"Can I?" Donghyuck clears his throat, the gentle acoustic of his heart strings turning into an electric guitar solo, loud and frantic.

Jaemin stays quiet for a second. "Yes," he answers, pulling away to stand face to face with Donghyuck. "You can."

Very carefully, Donghyuck lets his hands find Jaemin's face, cradling it like lovers do. He brings their faces together, the air between them as clear and tangible as the ocean, coming out in harsh, expectant waves. He is so close Donghyuck could trace his pores with his eyes, and so lovely he could offer an eternity to this sight and this sight only, swelled up in his line of vision like fish lens. Donghyuck distantly notices that, when about to share a kiss, all lovers start to look like the moon.

"Wait," Jaemin breathes out, his words puffing against Donghyuck's face.

"What is it?" Donghyuck asks, his own breath getting thinner and thinner, drowned to the pit of the ocean again.

"I don't know," the angel answers truthfully, arms flopping to the side unceremoniously. His hands find Donghyuck's waist timidly, almost uncertain. "Sorry. You just got me nervous. Go on."

"Alright," he traces the edge of Jaemin's cheekbones, softly caressing it. "Push me away if you don't like it, okay? I don't mean to frighten you."

Jaemin nods in expectation.

And while he is soft, kind, good, and patient, Donghyuck is not. All he knows is how to devore the space between their lips and demand for more, with gusto; pride; and all those sins he should never be forgiven for. The fastest a human body can fall is three hundred and twenty-five kilometers per hour, but Donghyuck wants it faster, harder, the world's restraints coming up a few inches shorter from his relentless devotion. Jaemin doesn't push him away as much as he lets him in, his hands shakingly coming to card through Donghyuck's hair as if stepping on the brakes, though he could not stop himself from giving out the oh so desired green light.

In the long but never enough period of time Jaemin stayed glued to his lips, Donghyuck found it in himself his first — and maybe only — reason to thank God. The fact Jaemin exists means someone out there put a lot of effort into making him, just so he ended up with Donghyuck tracing the back of his tongue and pulling against his nape, which he could never be any less grateful for. And what a grand delight Jaemin is, to the point thanking the Heavens might not be enough.

"You're out of breath and lost in thought," the angel points out as they pull away, the heel of his palm gently massaging Donghyuck's neck. "I thought I told you before to stop making up tragedies in your head."

He snickers, pulling Jaemin impossibly closer by the hem of his shirt. "This time I'm not," he answers, heaving out the eternal heathen of his lungs. Donghyuck means to say something, but no words come out; vast and empty like the bottom of a cliff.

"I hope you aren't," Jaemin lightly pinches the skin of his neck, just to be annoying. Donghyuck is so, so fond. "That was very pleasant, Donghyuck."

A chuckle comes out of his mouth easily. "Yeah? Good to know."

Jaemin bites his lower lip, features softening. "But what does it mean?"

"It means that I like you, maybe, if you're okay with that."

Donghyuck doesn't like words — they're too complicated, too ambiguous, too easy to forget. He wishes he could tell all there is to say to Jaemin through a kiss, and a kiss only.

The angel looks pleased with his answer. "I'm okay with that," he announces. "And I'm okay with kissing too. As much as you like."

"As much as I like is a very ambitious measurement," Donghyuck smooths his thumb over Jaemin's eyebrow, pressing the tip of his fingers to the crease of his eyelids. "It would be worse if you said it's as much as I want to. Then you wouldn't even have time for breathing."

The angel shrugs, a sprinkle of flirtiness to his features like cinnamon over steamed milk. "I think I can take it."

He smiles. "Good."

"Oh, dear Lord," Jaemin breathes out, hugging Donghyuck to his chest almost forcefully. "You're so lovely."

Donghyuck laughs, the sound of it muffled by Jaemin's shoulder. "Don't say God's name when I'm in the room; I don't think They'll like it."

"Maybe not," the angel runs his fingers through Donghyuck's hair again, scratching his scalp lovingly and pressing him down onto his shoulder. "But you're always in my prayers, so I suppose They're familiar with you."

He doesn't say anything else. Not because he doesn't know how to, but because he's not brave enough to say that he has a good chance of never knowing Heaven. Donghyuck tries — he truly does — but being good is hard, and once something takes over him, it does so completely, in order that he's always walking on eggshells and unsure of his next step. It shouldn't be; but goodness is maybe the one thing he has spent his entire life wasting tries at.

Donghyuck is good at making enemies, but terrible at making friends, much less lovers. Maybe that's why his first approach to Jaemin was to try and hate him — he knows no other way to form a bond.

"Stop _thinking_ so hard," Jaemin taps his fingers against Donghyuck's temple, a dragged whine to the back of his throat. "It doesn't matter. None of this matters. Pay attention to me."

He offers a dry chuckle. "I pay too much attention to you; I need something else to care for."

"Why?" The angel nuzzles the side of his head, nonchalant. "I don't think you do."

"Because," and Donghyuck doesn't know it himself. Jaemin makes it hard to think. "I don't know. I just do."

Communication goes in circles because Donghyuck is, admittedly, uncooperative. Still — Jaemin understands, and Jaemin cares, and Jaemin forgives. When Donghyuck comes to an end, like a burnt out cigarette, he is met at the very edge of his limits, and Jaemin allows him to keep going, elongating the subject until it's a matter of long, thin strings, like stretched out hard candy. He keeps things going when Donghyuck comes to a harsh stop, come what may from their artificial infinities.

And, well, anyways: He saw their cult of domesticity coming long before it actually existed. The days following their small outburst of intimacy were spent in bed, tangled together as if a silent oath, swearing on all the time wasted apart. Their love may have not been organic, but it appears meaningful nevertheless — once love is not spoon fed, one has to learn how to lick it off knives.

It’s when Jaemin’s hands find his hair, and when they trace the dents of his spine with tenderness worth a thousand years of human nature; it’s when his wings spread wide against mundane matter and shelter Donghyuck from the harsh afternoon sun, a low chuckle telling him it’s time to wake up; it’s when the sunflowers from the uncared for garden at their building’s front porch start to turn towards Jaemin rather than to the sun. Lovely people who do lovely things cannot ever be ugly — and Jaemin is as beautiful as creatures come.

They’re splayed out on the living room’s floor, a few seconds from the sunset, when Jaemin gathers Donghyuck’s body with his wings, pulling him close enough to touch chests, a small bridge of movement slowly disappearing as their skins merge together. There’s a low rumble of laughter to his features when he stares at Donghyuck, face to face, fond in ways no one else has ever been. An angel is an inconceivable creature, and the joy they bring measures up to their strangeness, which brings them impossibly closer to the human image than they’ll ever be to God.

“Would you like to know about Heaven?” Jaemin asks, eyes drowning in mischief.

Donghyuck closes his eyes for a second, allowing the living, breathing space between them to shape itself into something else completely, in order that no closeness shall be enough. “Are you allowed to tell me about it?”

The angel shrugs. “I’m not sure.”

“Your God will be very displeased if you break Their rules for me,” Donghyuck points out. “But you’ve done it quite a few times now, so by all means…”

Jaemin smiles softly, letting his right hand cup Donghyuck’s chin. His eyes are the size of the moon, and maybe even bigger; in them, live the hundred ghosts that Donghyuck likes to call home. “It’s just so _beautiful_ , Donghyuck,” he breathes out. “The trees and the animals and… Life, and no escape… It’s just so beautiful. We sing by day and dance by night. We sleep in angel dens, you know?”

“Angel dens, huh?” he answers, suddenly invested in the joy burning behind Jaemin’s pupils. Donghyuck reaches a hand to smooth down his hair, threading his fingers downwards in silent choreography. “You and your family?”

At the mention of family, the angel brightens up as though Christmas lights do. “One to each family, though Mother does not exactly fit in a den.”

“Is that so? Why?”

Jaemin’s giggles slip from his lips like a waterslide, clear and breathy against his ear. “What do you mean why? They’re a Biblical Angel.”

Donghyuck must have looked confused, as Jaemin continues not longer after: “The ones in the Bible… Lots of eyes, round, a little scary for humans?” He tentatively leans his head to the side, inspecting his face for recognition. Needless to say; none is found.

Donghyuck shakes his head. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

“Well, anyways. Yes, a den for each family, but families consist of a lot of people sometimes. Fixed residency is just… Too complicated, too strict. We switch things up as much as we can.” Then he seems to be reminded of something, poking Donghyuck’s cheek with his pointer fingers. “But newlyweds get one for themselves; we call it a love den. We agree to let them be at peace until someone else gets married.”

Very distantly, Donghyuck imagines himself in an angel den, and the thought soothes his heart maybe just as much as the prospect of Jaemin in the same place does. “Oh, that’s nice.”

“It is! And I love weddings. Mostly, I — well, because I’m not _that_ old, I sleep with the children. I came of age just a few weeks before I got sent here, you know?”

He reaches out a hand to pat Jaemin’s head, fond. “Yeah?”

“Yeah. And when we come back, we’ll live in an adult den. Unless you…” The angel starts, then stops himself, a slight frown to his features. “I’m sorry, nevermind. This is sort of weird to say.”

“What is it?” Donghyuck pokes his side teasingly. “You didn’t even say it.”

“It’s just… We could, you know, not now — of _course_ — but, see, maybe in the future…” Jaemin mumbles, suddenly ten times clumsier with his words. “We could get married, maybe. And we’d have a den to ourselves. And we’d wear pretty clothes, sing love songs, eat cake. Maybe even flower crowns.”

Fondness strikes through Donghyuck like lighting, cutting him in half and tearing his insides as though shared bread, the ones that travel from hand to hand and feed thousands. “Yeah, that’d be nice. Who would you invite, though? To the wedding.”

“Everyone I love, of course,” the angel answers, thoughtful for a second. “I know it’s quite… Peculiar, but Heaven is… Full of creatures. I’d invite them too.”

“Creatures?”

Jaemin nods, grabbing Donghyuck’s hand just to play with his fingers absentmindedly. “Yeah. I’m warning you so you don’t freak out once you get there. They’re from all shapes and sizes, and not everyone looks human. Remember it’s mean to stare.”

Donghyuck laughs. “Don’t worry about it. I won’t.”

“You better not,” the angel mumbles. Golden hour bends to his features as the sun slowly but surely wishes its goodbyes, kissing both their skins as if a worried mother, wondering _Will you be okay until it’s morning again?_

And Donghyuck is not quite sure if he will, but that is okay. Life is just a long sequence of unexpected outcomes, and the ones you can’t predict happen to be the ones you end up loving the most. Jaemin’s fingers interlace with his, no space left for evil to come in, and Donghyuck may not be spotless clean happy, but he is fine. This is maybe a first.

Though first don’t matter, and time seems to become more and more irrelevant as it amounts on the small of his back, just below his spine. He plants an absent kiss on Jaemin’s lips, and it doesn’t matter — whatever it is that hurts and has been hurting, it doesn’t matter. If it makes him this soft; let it hurt. Let it ache.

Jaemin wakes him up the next morning while wearing a flower crown, blinking around thousands and thousands of long, dark eyelashes. His smile is not the first beautiful thing Donghyuck sees as soon as he wakes up, but it rises up to the challenge neatly, competing only against the sunbeams, which have yet to disappoint Donghyuck as the rest of the world had.

“Good morning! I’ve been up since six in the morning!” The angel announces happily, pulling Donghyuck out of bed through his hand, skin tingling where it connects with his. He scrambles out of the room, Donghyuck hot on his heel, and tugs him to the kitchen. “Look! I’ve made supper!”

And supper he had made, for sure. The kitchen table, though small and weak, holds three or four plates of food Donghyuck distantly reminds making as Jaemin carefully watched from behind, back when they were still dancing around each other in hesitance. A flower crown sits by one of the two plates, dipped in long braided wax flowers and spiking craspedias, a beautiful rainbow of soft pinks and tender yellows. Jaemin reaches to it and delicately places over his head.

“See? Beautiful,” he whispers, adjusting it until he deems it worthy enough of sitting atop of Donghyuck’s head. The axis of the world feels tilted, then, but for good; as if everything bad flickered from existence in the short blink of Jaemin’s eyes. “Beautiful,” Jaemin repeats, for good measure. “And healthy.”

In his still half asleep state, Donghyuck mumbles: “Healthy?”

“Healthy is more important than beautiful,” the angel mumbles back. “Means a lot more than beautiful.”

“Okay, angel,” he answers, accepting whatever it is that Jaemin is trying to convey. Sometimes love lies in the acceptance, even if you don’t understand — even if you can’t understand. “You’re right.”

Jaemin sits on one side of the table, bringing his hands together almost shyly over his lap. “I just thought… I’d make you something nice. Something you’d remember if you…”

“If I failed this life?” Donghyuck completes it for him, still standing by the doorway.

“Don’t say it like that,” the angel frowns. “A life with you in it could never be failed.”

He chuckles, ignoring the hurtful streaming of the river he calls a heart. “May I brush my teeth before we eat? And maybe brush my hair?”

Jaemin avoids his stare, a lovely blush to his cheeks. “Of course. I’m sorry for dragging you out of bed — I was… Excited.”

“I could tell,” Donghyuck nods fondly, fighting back a smile. “I’ll be back soon.”

He leaves before he has the chance to hear Jaemin’s soft confirming, but that is okay. Donghyuck has to practice leaving him as many times as he can, in order that it doesn’t hurt this much in the future.

And then he’s sitting with a flower crown resting on his head, taking bitefuls of food that tastes just a little bit saltier than it should. Jaemin is babbling on as he does — about something Donghyuck can’t make out, but his voice falls to his ears like the clicking of the right key on a lock, in order that no silence is ever truly empty.

“Donghyuck,” Jaemin calls, still by the first half of his food as Donghyuck’s quickly comes to an end at each forkful he gives, lost at his own pace. “Can I ask you something?”

He hums. “Yeah, of course.”

“Alright,” the angel nods, letting his fork fall to the plate with a muffled noise. He joins his hands on the air over it, resting his elbows against the table. “How did you even get here? What did you do?”

Donghyuck licks his lips. _There it is,_ he thinks to himself. “I just… I wanted to live so bad. I wanted to be good again, and I guess I was willing to fight for it.”

Jaemin nods again, turning his stare back to his hands. “You’re so brave.”

“I wouldn’t call it brave, I think.” He leans against the chair, a flood of the past months coming to wash over him. The memories are still fresh enough to smear, just a bit more tangible than they were before, and it’s in that acknowledgement he realizes how long this short lived lifetime actually is. At sudden, the heavy weight of conscience weighs him down by the shoulders. “I just had nothing to lose.”

“And how is it?” Jaemin asks, blinking around immense amounts of curiosity. “Hell, I mean.”

Donghyuck frowns. “It’s nothing for angels like you to know.”

“But I’ve _always_ wanted to know,” the angel whines. “What does it feel like, at least?”

“Like nothing else you know, Jaemin,” he answers, deeply bothered by the mere thought of Jaemin associating to any of the things he’s seen. He is too good — good enough to not know what Hell is like, and Donghyuck plans on keeping it that way. “Really, things just aren’t always like something else.”

Jaemin’s eyes get impossibly bigger, curling around something that feels desperately like sadness. “Is it that bad?” He asks, moping.

“Yeah, it is.”

The angel pushes his chair closer to the table, leaning closer to Donghyuck until his eyes reflect his image. “I’m sorry you had to go through that. You deserved better than what you got.”

Donghyuck is about to mouth “It’s alright”, but Jaemin beats him to it by continuing: “And somebody had to say it. I _know_ you, Donghyuck, and you’re not bad. You’re good. I don’t believe in anyone else as much as I believe in you.”

A lifetime of silence, though it had only lasted a few instants.

“You don’t know that,” he answers, slightly faltering against Jaemin’s gaze. He wonders, then, if it’s merely human to feel like a terrible creature even when told otherwise — and quickly recognizes that it is. It’s inherently, terrifyingly human. “We don’t know that.”

Jaemin shakes his head. “No, I believe we have power over how good people believe us to be. And no heart can love as well as your does and still have no goodness in it.”

Sometimes Donghyuck forgets how wise he is, but Jaemin makes no effort into it — if anything, every turn he takes makes it clear that him, too, sees much more than just what it seems. "I hope that's enough," he answers, because there doesn't feel to have anything else to say.

And in return of all the times Jaemin has brought Heaven to the mortal plane, Donghyuck tells him about the tales of a troubled, but enjoyable life. He tells him about being seventeen years old, glued to a television, and about things the government should never know as long as he wants to keep being a free man. He tells Jaemin about cloned credit cards and late night Chinese takeout, about coming of age with a crappy gas station job and seeing his mother once or twice a week. It is not magical, — there are no angel dens or peculiar creatures from where he's from —, but it doesn't have to be. Where life denied him beauty, Donghyuck always managed to muster up his own particular lens of sight, ones that clogged with amazement for a world meant to be adored in its little details.

"And out of everything, what I regret the most is not having been kinder when I could have." Donghyuck downs a cup of dollar store champagne, cheap and bubbly with no other qualities to it. He looks down at his own knees for a second, and is amazed by how big a body is when this close.

"That's a good regret to have," Jaemin comments, slightly tipsy himself. His cheeks are rosy like peaches, and Donghyuck can't keep himself from staring. "Shows you care."

"Of course I do," he shrugs. "I care so much about every little thing — it's insane. I need someone to punch me in the back of my head and recalibrate it or something, because so far I think I've been getting life wrong."

Jaemin smiles at him for a heartbeat too long, shamelessly staring back. "I think you got everything just right."

He smiles back, unable to not to. "Second time's a charm."

Donghyuck could've argued — he could've pointed out to Jaemin every single reason as to why he hasn't lived his life to its best, most kind shape, but it would not matter. When love roars, one sits back and listens; there is nothing else worth saying.

"I'm sorry you went through this pain, Donghyuck," Jaemin softly exhales as they're washing the dishes, bumping his hips against Donghyuck's. "I will keep you as safe as I can from now on. I won't let harm come to you."

He laughs a quiet laugh, feeling the afternoon lethargy fill him up without a single struggle. "You don't have to worry," Donghyuck gently nuzzles his shoulder for a second before going back to his chore. "Everyone that wants to do me any harm will have to catch me first."

Jaemin nods. "And go through me, as well."

"Jaemin, you could not hurt a fly." Donghyuck shakes his head, albeit fondly, as he rinses out the foam from their kitchen utensils. "You're an angel; a literal angel. There is no one as kind and forgiving as you are."

The angel shrugs. "You only know humanoid me. You don't know how scary I get when I look Biblical."

"What does that mean?" He asks, but Jaemin is already on the other side of the kitchen, organizing freshly dried plates in neat piles to place them in their cabinets. "Jaemin, _what does that mean–"_

But Jaemin doesn't answer, purposefully focusing on his task of color coding their wide variety of white and beige mugs. Donghyuck laughs to himself at his antics, and the fact Jaemin is just silently standing there doesn't seem to be anything short of a delight.

Yet the thing about time is that it runs out.

It all started when a bird clashed right into their porch's clear door, the poor little thing falling to the ground like gravity could not help its own cruelty. Jaemin ran towards it as soon as he heard the small chirps of pain, dressed in nothing but sweatpants and gasping in worry against the midday sun. Donghyuck trailed after him, less concerned, trying to smooth down his own head of messy hair.

"Jaemin, what's that?" Donghyuck asks from the living room's doorway, frowning slightly. "Everyone on the street will see you shirtless."

The angel rushes into the living room, cupping the small bird to his chest with enormous eyes, carefully stepping as to not make any sudden moves. "Have nothing to hide about my physical form," he mumbles, heading to the kitchen and laying the bird onto it. Donghyuck lurks behind him curiously. "I think it hurt its little wing."

The wing in question looks wonky, recoiled to the bird's small body, but doesn't seem broken. "It's probably just sore," Donghyuck points out. He approaches Jaemin carefully, letting his hands fall to his naked shoulders. "We have to let it rest for a bit to know."

Jaemin lightly caresses the bird's head with his pointer finger, humming in acknowledgement. He starts talking, but not to Donghyuck — to the bird. "You'll be okay, buddy," he whispers, towering over the small creature. "My wings get sore sometimes too. They can even get cramps. You don't get those, do you?"

"It doesn't understand you." Donghyuck watches him fondly, allowing his hand to escalate to Jaemin's nape.

"I guess not," the angel shrugs in nonchalance. "But it's in pain. Every creature likes to be spoken to gently when it's in pain."

And how could Donghyuck even argue with that?

He's in the middle of grabbing some chia seeds for the bird's homemade meal when he finds it. It could've been easily missed — sitting between bags of rice and bottles of sesame oil, anyone would've simply ignored it, giving its round shape no more mind than needed. Donghyuck drops the bag of chia seeds to the ground as he jumps back, heart racing. In front of him, a timer makes itself present, the loud beeping of its mechanical body a terrifying tale of time that does not stay for any longer than it has to.

The timer tells him there are only 336 hours left, with counting down seconds to match it and a few minutes to slow it. He closes the cabinet's door with a loud bang, mortified, and stares at its mundane whiteness for a few minutes before Jaemin calls for him from the living room.

"Donghyuck?" His voice echoes through the small apartment, so distant and yet so close. Donghyuck gulps down around a dry throat, picking up the bag of seeds from his feet with a haunted expression, and tries to recompose himself at the thought of worrying Jaemin.

"I'm coming — wait, fuck — Sorry! I dropped it!" Donghyuck yells back, a deep breath following his sentence.

"Are you okay?" Jaemin asks, voice now louder, as if approaching the kitchen. "Do you need help?"

Donghyuck is quick to catch up with him at the living room, the angel already up from the couch to meet him on the kitchen. He offers him a watered down smile, the bag of seeds hanging from his left hand. "Here you go," he hands it to Jaemin, who hesitantly takes it.

"Are you alright? You seemed shaken up," the angel drops the bag on their center table, cupping Donghyuck's face with his hands and slightly squishing it. "What's bothering you?"

He smiles, placing his own hands on top of Jaemin's. "Nothing," Donghyuck lies, caressing the top of his hands with his thumbs. "Where's your friend?"

"On the couch," Jaemin's hands drop, but not before a light kiss is pressed to Donghyuck's cheek. He turns around, motioning towards the small bird nestled between cushions, their blanket folded to resemble a pet's bed. "Poor baby. Windows should not be so high up, you know? Birds aren't used to them."

Donghyuck hums. "Suppose they're not."

Jaemin kneels on the ground before the couch, cupping a handful of seeds and bringing it to the bird's beak. It doesn't eat it at first, but with some gentle convincing it takes one small seed, gorging on it for a second before swallowing. Jaemin turns back to Donghyuck with a huge, excited smile, a thumbs up to his free hand.

Donghyuck's heart aches. He's not ready to lose this — whatever it is, he's not ready to lose it. He'd miss Jaemin like a lung, like an eyeball, like his very own limbs; he'd miss Jaemin like he'd miss life, like he'd miss the world a few second before it ends. It's not fair they should have to part.

The rest of the afternoon was spent watching Jaemin's gentle nature take care of the bruised bird, hands so delicate they barely made any noise. He seemed to be so fond of it — its small eyes, round and bright, the wings longer than its own little body. In that sense, Donghyuck gets their connection: Jaemin is much more bird than person, given his airy nature and the way his wings spring open in the morning, wild and majestic like no man could ever do him any harm. When put like that, it makes sense that Jaemin — and everything wild and beautiful — belongs both to Heaven and Earth.

They're cooking dinner when Donghyuck first mentions the timer, over the buzz of a frying pan as he washes vegetables from the sink. Jaemin clicks his cooking chopsticks, a frown on his eyebrows. "336 hours seems like a lot of time, though."

Donghyuck shrugs, rinsing a carrot under the stream of water. "It's just two weeks," he points out, using the carrot free hand to push his sleeves up to his elbows. "It's not a lot of time at all."

"And it's in the kitchen cabinet of all places?" Jaemin asks, his frown deepening. "That's so… Shady."

"I guess it is," Donghyuck answers, shoulders sinking to the bottom of the ocean. The fast coming course of time is sometimes like the barrel of a gun — expectant, alive, ever changing; but never easy to take.

"Are you nervous?" The angel turns around to stare, leaning against the stove. Donghyuck wants to scold him for it, but doesn't find the motivation to do it in himself.

"I'm…" He starts, trying to find words to explain. In the meanwhile, he switches from carrots to tomatoes. "Shaken up. Anxious. But okay at the same time."

Swift-footed, Jaemin walks over to him with a mild sigh, gently wrapping his arms around Donghyuck's back. His chin finds solace on the curve where his neck meets his shoulder, and his cheeks glue to Donghyuck's like magnets meant to be together. Jaemin nuzzles against skin, comfort in every meaning of the word. "My Heavens, Donghyuck. The angels will love to meet you."

But that's not what he's scared about; though Jaemin doesn't need to know. "I hope so," he murmurs, relishing on the angel's hold and feeling his muscles relax against Jaemin's chest.

And the thing is that — Jaemin is downy-soft, the most forgiving of cherubs, and not everyone shares his eyes when it comes to Donghyuck. It is a common belief, then, that his lover sees him as much better than he actually is; and he cannot convince him of otherwise, though Jaemin had tried. Donghyuck is the vessel to which the angel's love shines through, and nothing else. His sins won't be forgiven; they won't even be understood.

"Don't worry too much about it," Jaemin whispers, squeezing Donghyuck's body against his. "I'm not letting you go; not by any chance."

At that, he is able to let out a soft chuckle, unsure of how to respond to such absurd amounts of love. "Will you hold on to me by my arms and shoulders?"

Donghyuck feels the angel nodding against his shoulder. "Your feet too. I won't let go."

"Promise?"

Jaemin lays his forehead against his nape, eyelashes tickling Donghyuck's skin. "Promise." He places a kiss onto the base of his neck, lips glued to the warm skin a few more seconds than necessary. "You'll go down in afterlife history one way or another, Donghyuck. You know that."

"I don't care for history," Donghyuck taps his fingers against the back of Jaemin's hand, tight on his waist. "I just want them to include you in it. As long as they get your part of my life right, I don't care about anything else."

The angel laughs a low rumble of joy, straight honey running through his veins. "History is not for angels. No one will know I existed in this mortal plane; only you."

"I'll know," he sighs, eyes casting down to watch Jaemin's hands. "And I'll never forget. Even if I don't see you again."

"You'll see me again." Jaemin shakes his head, relentless. "You know you'll see me again."

And he is so stubborn, so sure, Donghyuck finds himself believing in it — even slightly, even just because he really wanted to. Jaemin believes in him so relentlessly it feels like a sin to disagree. "Alright, feisty," he answers, resuming to humor. Donghyuck turns around, their chests touching, and smiles: "Give me a kiss, then?"

One kiss between many shared that week.

336 hours are not a lot of time. Every passing minute felt like a countdown — the manic screams of New Year's eve would never leave the back of his head, muffling out every other thought, loud and fearless like the violent breaking of the ocean. During the two weeks Donghyuck spent nervously awaiting the end of history as he knows, everything seemed to amount together into a pile of repetitive cycles.

First, it was the nightmares; the ones he hasn't had since the first week back on Earth. Drowning, muffled screams, water burning up lungs — everything his brain had registered from Hell came back at full force, like water filling up empty corners of a room. Donghyuck tried to sleep, but eventually gave up: Nighttime became the moment of graveyard silence, watching Jaemin's chest rise and fall and finding solace in it. Sometimes he would wake up, to get a glass of water or to go to the bathroom, and Donghyuck would pointedly pretend to sleep.

Then it stopped being a night reserved terror. They were gardening for the thrill of it, since Jaemin wanted to and Donghyuck is nothing if not a weak man, and suddenly the sun was too bright and too overwhelming for it to be okay. He had knelt beside Jaemin, hands deep into the earth, and tried to shift his focus to the angel's babbles, his chatterbox nature coming in hand for once.

"We come from the earth, we return to the earth, and in between we garden," Jaemin explains, burying his sunflower seeds under copious amounts of dirt, then slightly fluffing it with the heels of his hands. "So that it makes sense. Got it?"

But Donghyuck had no idea what he was talking about. All he could think about was how he would not be able to see these flowers grow, since they surely would take more than a week to fully bloom, and a week is all Donghyuck has. That became a recurring topic — every single activity became a ghost, slipping from his hands at the realization that these would probably be the last times he would do them. He tried to push those thoughts away when kissing Jaemin, though; the idea of losing him was still too hard to manage.

When more timers started to appear around the house, Donghyuck cursed himself for having taken so long to come to terms with Jaemin's undeniable loveliness. If he hadn't been so obnoxious when they first met, maybe they'd have grown more memories together — maybe it wouldn't feel like such an abrupt stop to a short lived relationship. Strangely enough, something he most missed was the times where he and Jaemin were not a thing yet: when he still had all the time in the world to know and love him, at his own pace, innocent to the temporal chains that held him back so tightly.

He was there to watch it when the timers collectively came to announce that he was living on his last remaining twenty-four hours. Jaemin usually ignored the timers; being an angel, death was not as radical to him as it was to Donghyuck — to Jaemin, it simply meant going somewhere else, a slight change to an already unstable lifestyle.

But not a soul on Earth knows Hell like Donghyuck does. No one knows about the nightmares, or the random shivers, or walking into terrifying cold spots that washed old memories over him like war flashbacks. No one understands how haunting it is to have all your life depend on the incessant countdown of a thousand, small timers, those of which Donghyuck tried to destroy so many times.

Four went flushed down the toilet, two were hammered down, seven were thrown to the wall violently, multiple times, until they started to look like deformed blobs of plastic. Nothing worked — they kept showing up everywhere, from the kitchen to the porch to the bathroom. There was one behind the TV and one under their shared beds, one over the stove and about four on the kitchen cabinets. The reality of his own mortality never failed to show up to the occasion, and it surely loved a challenge; the more Donghyuck ran from it, the faster it came to get him.

He was sitting on the kitchen, face to face with one of the first timers, watching the time go by. Twenty-four hours from now Donghyuck will be positively passing away, to discover how good he has been and how much he deserves to be spared from eternal damnation. Jaemin bakes him trays of blondies every day now, trying to lighten up the mood, and Donghyuck loves him for it — loves his compassion and gentleness, the way he is the first one to ever give him true, unchanging redemption. Jaemin, too, will soon be home; to his mother and his friends and his beautiful rainforest, back to singing and dancing all day long.

That's comfort, to Donghyuck: If or when he's sent to Hell, Jaemin will live well for the rest of his days. He'll be loved and adored by others, even if Donghyuck won't be able to experience it — that's something he can count on. That's solace he can use, if he ever finds himself falling deeper and deeper into unknown waters.

The minutes go down too quickly. He falls prey to exhaustion along with the sunrise, uncomfortably fitted against their kitchen's wooden chairs, and Jaemin finds him there by afternoon, having just woken up himself. The angel ends up hoisting him up by his arms and tucking him into bed for a few more hours, his hands coming to card through Donghyuck's hair and lulling him back to sleep, peaceful for the first time in the last two weeks.

When he wakes up, he does not get out of bed. There is no reason to — soon enough he'll be dead, and walking around the apartment would only give him the type of heartaches that time could never heal. Eventually, the angel forces him to bathe and brush his teeth, but even Jaemin can't bring himself to boss him around on such a delicate moment. Donghyuck traces his muscles in the shower, trying to imprint the feeling of being alive against his brain, but the mirror ends up fogged up, and he can't bring himself to erase any trace of his existence in this place. By the time the timer marks four hours, he drags himself and Jaemin out of bed, only so that he can die somewhere prettier.

Jaemin holds him tight as they sit on the garden they've taken care of for the last months, his fingertips scratching Donghyuck's scalp with a silent hum, a lullaby to the tip of his tongue. It's not one Donghyuck knows, and it's certainly not in a language he understands; he soon comes to realize Jaemin is humming under the angels' language, what soothes his heart inexplicably. As they watch time go by with the one timer they brought from their apartment, Donghyuck starts to feel calm, and perhaps even sleepy — as if he could stomach this death even if for just a moment.

In the last thirty minutes, his heartbeats start to pick up again, the body's last reluctance towards death. His lips dry up, but Jaemin gently pecks them over and over again, until they feel slightly softer to the touch. Donghyuck allows him to do whatever, because he doesn't know how harsh the reality of his death will be — he doesn't know how much it'll affect Jaemin, in order that giving himself out for him to memorize comes too easily.

Twenty minutes. He curls himself into a ball, allowing Jaemin to hold him completely, sitting between his extended legs as if the angel could protect him from what's to come. The grass prickles against his naked ankles and the wind meets his skin harshly, as if telling him to man up; which he does, though only to himself. Jaemin holds him so tightly, so securely, it's like nothing can take him away — not even death, not even God Themself.

"Jaemin," he calls as the timer hits ten minutes, desperately pushing himself against Jaemin's chest as the angel squeezes him impossibly tighter. "Promise me you'll live like a king if we never see each other again."

"What— Donghyuck— We'll—"

"Yes, I know." Donghyuck pulls away, kneeling between Jaemin's open legs to look him in the face. "But promise me. Promise me you'll eat well, and dance, and sing, and that you'll get your own angel den with someone else. I need this to go out in peace."

Jaemin's eyes get impossibly rounder, watering ever so slightly and twinkling against the moonlight. His voice comes out breathy, emotional: "I promise. And I promise to do all of that when you come home to me."

"Thank you," he sighs, ignoring the _when_ that comes out so hopefully out of Jaemin's mouth. "Can you just— Can you lay me down on the ground? I want to see the stars when it happens."

The angel nods softly. "Of course."

Jaemin lays him down near the sunflowers, in a bed of grass that's short enough to smother his body without bothering it. When Donghyuck lays down, eyes trained to the stars, it feels as bad as it seems — there is no peace to it, as desperation is a much stronger fighter. His hands shake so much he barely feels them, but Jaemin interlaces their fingers together lovingly, brushing the hair out of his forehead.

The stars are beautiful and untouchable, which just seems to be Donghyuck's type. Their cold eyes stare at him, and he stares back at them, expecting no mercy from such a cruel void; even if it feels nice to have it blanket over him, in order that it doesn't hurt as much as it would if they weren't there. Jaemin pulls his head against his thigh, gently resting it against it, and peeks at him from upside down.

"Five minutes," he announces, playing with Donghyuck's hair.

Five minutes. _Five_ minutes.

He tries to memorize how the air feels against his lungs, and how the grass prickles against his arms. Donghyuck has never treasured his senses as much as he does now, trying to get his eyes twice their sizes to take in not only the stars, but Jaemin and the pulling of his scent against his nostrils, smelling of home and their shared shampoo. "Three," Jaemin announces again, as if trying to prepare him for it.

"I love you," Donghyuck tells him, closing his eyes against the feeling of Jaemin's fingers on his hair. "Whatever happens, I love and I loved you. A lot. More than I ever thought I could."

Jaemin doesn't answer, but Donghyuck sees his face coming closer and closer, until their noses are touching. It's upside down, and he can't see much of Jaemin, but he tries to — he tries to memorize the pattern of his pores and the shape of his lips, the way his eyelashes fan over his eyes and how they tickle Donghyuck's chin with how long they are. The way their noses touch and their faces fit together, and how his kiss was nothing short of delicious, a touch he'd spend the remaining minutes of his life looking for.

Jaemin smiles, then gently nuzzles his jawline. "You know I'll see you again, Donghyuck."

But Donghyuck's last gasp of air happened long before he could've ever answered.

And the next thing he remembers is sitting at the same room he pleaded to be let alive in, months before he ever knew Jaemin existed. His hands grip the table in front of him, alarmed, as he looks around the empty room, the same rolls and rolls of unused chairs resting around the same old podium. Mark is not here anymore — wherever he got sent to because of him, it is certainly not here.

The person at the podium turns around, still in the same suit from before, and Donghyuck recognizes Them before They even turn around, though Their appearance is much different from what he remembered.

" _Jaemin?_ " He choked out, mortified.

Not-Jaemin frowns, letting Their hands fall open to the podium's flat surface. "Is that how you see me as?"

Donghyuck blinks. _God._ God has Jaemin's appearance, perfect from his small hips to the dark roots of his grey hair. The image is almost too much to bear — if he focused only on Their face, it's almost as if Jaemin was really here; the only difference being Their voice, which Donghyuck supposes They can't really change.

"My Heavens, the angel did quite a number on you, hasn't he?" Not-Jaemin clicks Their tongue against Their cheek teasingly, raising Their eyebrows to Donghyuck. "Ah, well, I don't put that on you; you've met Heaven's best, for sure."

Not-Jaemin stares straight into Donghyuck, features clear and sharp like the moon. It is Jaemin's face, there are no doubts about it; but nothing else burns behind it, as if a hollow hologram. Donghyuck's Jaemin would not make that face — he would not seem as cold, as unattainable, and he'd never meet anyone in such hostility. Even when treated unkindly, Jaemin never once returned it.

"Oh, _please,_ " Not-Jaemin scoffs from the podium, uninterestedly looking through files. "Don't be so mushy about it. Message sent, message received; you love the angel, you want to be besides him at all times, blah-blah-blah. Let's talk business."

Donghyuck clears his throat, leaning forward on his elbows. He's wearing the same clothes from before — a boring grey suit, and a black dress shirt underneath it, matching with polished social shoes he would love to burn in a fire.

Not-Jaemin offers him a cold smile. "What are you willing to do to get to Heaven, huh?"

"I'll…" Donghyuck starts, foolishly intimidated by Jaemin's image. He keeps reminding himself: _It's not him, don't be fooled,_ but the eyes are nothing if not the front door to deception. "I'll burn every room, I'll bribe every judge, I'll kill every cop. You people will take _years_ to recover from the damage."

Not-Jaemin raises Their eyebrows, unimpressed. "Is that all?"

The urge to spit on Their shoes may be the harshest of Donghyuck's desires, though he wills it down. "I'm not scared of you," he announces.

"Stating the obvious," They answer, nonchalant at best. Not-Jaemin inspects Their nails. "I'm not scared of you either, so we can agree on no more threats, now can't we?"

Donghyuck gulps down his anger. "We can."

Not-Jaemin smiles. "Good," They answer, gathering a bunch of files and tapping them against the surface of the podium. "We can agree not to lie to each other as well, I assume?"

"We can," he reluctantly answers, jaw locked into place.

"Good boy," Not-Jaemin compliments, placing the files down and out of Donghyuck's line of vision. "Answer me a few questions, Donghyuck, and this will be over soon."

He nods.

Not-Jaemin wastes no time. "Your dad left when you were seven and your mother left when your were eighteen, correct?"

Donghyuck closes his eyes in annoyance, jaw clenched impossibly harder. "Correct."

"Would you say that influenced you on your approach to your second life?" They ask, seemingly scribbling down onto his files.

"Most certainly," he sighs, already _too_ bothered. Donghyuck has answered these questions enough in his first lifetime already, to a multitude of therapists and psychiatrists. "I don't see why this matters—"

Not-Jaemin cuts his sentence short. "Have you done anything illegal or ill intentioned during your stay?"

Before Donghyuck can answer, They add: "We know if you did or didn't. This is just so we know if you'll tell the truth."

He rolls his eyes. "No, I haven't. Most my days were spent in the apartment."

"Alright," Not-Jaemin hums suspiciously. They peek at their file again, eyes turning back to Donghyuck quickly enough. "Have you considered doing any harm, be it physical or emotional, to your angelic companion?"

Donghyuck presses his lips into a thin line. "No, I haven't." He answers truthfully. "And if I did, it was only mutual. We both knew where the knives were."

They raise their eyebrows at him, but say nothing. "Would you say your second experience on Earth has made you a better person? You will be allowed a few seconds to evaluate."

And would he?

Donghyuck might have not seen it before, but he does now. Jaemin has made him softer, tender, but what he couldn't have possibly done was to give him a whole new moral compass — that Donghyuck did on his own, as he slowly navigated the joys of life he once did not knew, to the point letting go of it on the purpose of Heaven might have felt strange, hesitant. A good person is a vague, failed concept, but Donghyuck knows for sure he enjoyed the world a whole lot more once he had no concerns regarding his surroundings.

He blinks. "Yeah, I would say so, yeah."

Not-Jaemin clears Their throat, its loud song echoing through the room. "Do you solemnly swear to not say a word about your experiences with Hell, if you're assigned to a stay in Heaven?"

"I do." Donghyuck mutters. "There's nothing from there I'd like to recall."

"Okay," Not-Jaemin places the files into a paper bag, avoiding Donghyuck's stare. "Someone wanted to testify on your defense, but they were not allowed into the purgatory, as they were not a neutral creature."

"Who—"

They pointedly ignore his questioning. "That being said, the transcript of their spoken testimony will be read out loud now. As protocol asks, the file will be burnt shortly after it is read, and you may not quote its existence to anyone that is not standing in this room. Do you agree?"

Donghyuck frowns. "Why can't I—"

"Do _you agree?_ " They repeat themselves, this time louder.

"I do." He leans back against his chair in expectancy.

Not-Jaemin obnoxiously clear Their throat again, raising a sheet of paper to reading distance. " _Hello, this is Na Jaemin, angelic identification 130800-333, son of Archangel Selaphiel and Cherub 130389-333_ ," They start reading out loud, features neutral.

Donghyuck's breath gets stuck on his throat, though he is no stranger to Jaemin's words. He'd recognize his writing anywhere, anytime — even in the depths of Hell.

" _I come to testify for Lee Donghyuck, the first and only human being to live twice,_ " They continue, stoic. " _I believe Donghyuck to be worthy of Heaven because of his kindness, which he used to introduce me to the human world. Donghyuck taught me several valuable lessons concerning love, humanity and strange kitchen utensils, those of which have only increased my life's quality, and I shall never forget."_

" _Though the reason Donghyuck deserves Heaven goes beyond acts of service. Lee Donghyuck is, simply put, the warmest human being I have ever known; even if that list is short. I don't believe his previous life's conditions should define him. As members of the afterlife, we fail each time a human being cannot ascend to Heaven, and Lee Donghyuck might be the one we have failed the most."_

" _He deserved much better than what he got, and we should make up for it by showing our best, kindest side in the face of doubt, just like Donghyuck himself did._ " They take a quick pause to change pages, switching the files. " _I would list many other reasons, but the biggest of them all is that I love Lee Donghyuck dear and sincerely. It is taught to us that no good creature goes through life unloved — based on that belief, I plead that Donghyuck deserves to go to Heaven. Thank you."_

They fold the papers together until they become tiny blobs of matter. A flame rises from Their palm, quickly turning Jaemin's testimony into an unrecognizable bunch of ashes, those of which They blow into the air with little to no regard. Meanwhile, Donghyuck blinks against the warm feeling that soars up his chest, Jaemin's words ringing in his head like one of his daily preachers.

It is both a blessing and a curse to be perceived so clearly by a someone one loves, but Donghyuck likes to believe he could measure up to Jaemin's image of him if he were given enough time to catch up. For what it seems, Jaemin believes in that too.

Not-Jaemin sighs, pinching the bridge of Their nose. "I don't want to send you to Hell, Donghyuck."

He frowns. "Then don't."

Their shoulders slump, frustrated. "I'm not convinced yet. How can you be so sure that you are any good at all?" Not-Jaemin asks, paying close attention to Donghyuck for the first time in what seemed like an entire year. "How can I know that you are not the same trashbag lowlife you have always been?"

Donghyuck presses his lips together, thoughtful. "You can't," he says, tapping his fingers against the wooden table in front of him. "But remember You are the one who made me. And You are the one who shaped my life to the way it was. It would be… A shame, really, to turn Your back on the creature You have ruined Yourself," Donghyuck raises an eyebrow, staring into God's eyes and finding nothing but a buzzing power, hollow until it isn't. "But if You allow me into Heaven — all the suffering would be worth it. It would not be evasion as much as it would be Your last act of kindness, the grand finale to an eternity of misery."

"And I am willing to forgive You," he sincerely announces, crossing his arms. "If You are willing to forgive me. Not as my God, but as my equal."

Not-Jaemin shakes Their head. "I'm not your equal."

Donghyuck hums. "Only the grand treat their inferiors like equals," he points out. "And only the grand take responsibility for the damage they have made themselves."

They sigh, seemingly in thought for a minute or so. Donghyuck waits by the very tip of his chair, tense, adrenaline pumping through him in ways it has not for many, many years. It's almost too much, but Heaven was his to keep the moment he stepped into this room, and Donghyuck doesn't dare to break the first rule of negotiating. He has to believe he deserves it himself — in order that the rest will follow.

Not-Jaemin slams Their palm against the podium's flat surface, grabbing his attention. "I will allow it, Donghyuck, but not because of you. I will allow it because you have someone waiting for you in Heaven, and separating lovers is a sin I regretted long ago."

He is about to argue back when he realizes what They meant. _I will allow it_ meant Heaven was his next stop, and it meant Jaemin was much closer to his fingertips than he has ever been. Relief washes over him in violent waves, clogging his throat and making his heart a mushy mess of tender matter, one that refuses to give up if it's in the name of a lover. Donghyuck would cry out of happiness, if only he had it in himself to do it.

"Don't be so..." Not-Jaemin frowns, though Donghyuck can see how his own happiness seems to affect Their image. With how Their features soften, They almost look like the real Jaemin. They end up giving up on their sentence, shaking their hand towards his direction. "Ugh, get out of my sight. Don't make me regret this."

And Donghyuck would never, though he might have before.

The next moments come through the medium of flashbacks, but they are nothing if not well lived. Donghyuck remembers swimming up to the surface, remembers the infiltrating sunbeams that pointed towards land, remembers how clear the lake was, transparent enough for his limbs to be seen even when his head was above the water. It was a short trip, and the first thing Donghyuck saw as he dragged himself out of the water was what seemed to be thousands of angel dens, delicately stitched to the tree crowns and encircled around their trunks.

His palms fall flat to the ground, securing his upper body, and a handful of ladybugs walk over his fingers, not a bother in this world as they move together. Once Donghyuck is done watching them, between huffs of clean air and watery coughs, he turns around to lay on his back, feeling the earth against the back of his head and all over his clothes. They'll be stained, but that is okay — the sun is too beautiful to not be adored the way that it is, intensely and with no moderation. The stubborn ladybugs use his torso as their bridge now, walking over his soaked dress shirt like it was just another obstacle on their unchangeable way, and Donghyuck finds it fascinating; almost endearing.

A butterfly comes to rest at the top of his nose, its small legs tickling the skin underneath. Its hind wing gently brushes against Donghyuck's cheek, large enough to completely cloud his vision; its nuances of light blue blending in with the clear sky to the point of confusing Donghyuck as to where it started and where the butterfly ended. He felt so peaceful, so… Belonging. It was almost as if the earth was taking him back — quietly forgiving him for all there is to forgive, and reclaiming a new meaning for this troublemaking body of his, the one Donghyuck once swore not wanting anything to do with.

His eyes close involuntarily, and relaxing against the earth came so easy it felt unbelievable. The next time they open up — slightly disturbed by distant mumbling and the sound of rustling — they are met with an unfamiliar face, peering over him from upside down curiously. Donghyuck would be alarmed, if his limbs didn't feel so heavy and peaceful, as if matter refusing to wake up.

"Oh, my Heavens!" The face exclaims, appearing more clear. Donghyuck makes out their features easily — it's a boy seemingly younger than him, with a long nose and small, kind eyes, a halo floating above his head of blue, short hair. He blinks curiously, and Donghyuck realizes the wings gently moving behind his back, holding him in place as he adjusts to be face to face with Donghyuck. "My, oh my. I know just the person that's been looking for you."

The angel whistles a two beat tune, melodic enough to feel like the gates of Heaven are slowly opening, welcoming Donghyuck in. That's a silly comparison, of course — the only way in and out of anywhere from the afterlife is through water. About a few instants later, a handful of angels gathered around his laid down body, some by land and some by the sky; they joined the original angel in his melody, making it ten times louder and clearer. It felt so welcoming Donghyuck allowed a few confused tears to well up his eyes, blinking around them for the strange feeling of belonging, which he doesn't know quite as well as he'd like to.

A commotion makes their whistling stutter, some few voices being heard as they make way for a distant figure, quickly coming closer and closer as Donghyuck fails to make out their image, squinting over the bright sunlight. It's only when he is close enough Donghyuck realizes: It's Jaemin.

Jaemin, himself, in both his divinity and his humanity. Jaemin, who is made of flesh and blood as much as he is made of stardust, as much as he is made of Heaven's best. Jaemin, whom he loves so much it feels ridiculous to even think about it, though Donghyuck would do everything all over again if it meant it would end up where he is, right now, struggling to sit up as Jaemin lands on him face first, sending the both of them to the ground.

His wings shield the other angels from Donghyuck's line of vision, majestically spread to form a wall between them and the rest of Heaven. Immediately, he towers over Donghyuck's body, pressing what seemed to be an entire lifetime worth of kisses against his face, hands cupping his cheeks.

"Hello," Jaemin pecks his right cheek. "Hello!" He pecks the left one. " _Hello!_ " He pecks him right on his lips, punctuating his excitement with more kisses.

"Hi," Donghyuck offers him a smile, allowing the angel to do as he pleases. "I came all the way here to get married, so I hope you have that flower crown ready to go."

The angel laughs gleefully, nuzzling their noses together. "Don't be silly." He giggles, wrapping his arms around Donghyuck's neck and holding him so tightly they could have become one. His voice seems a bit watery, wonky; Donghyuck promises himself to not look straight into Jaemin's eyes, because he would match his crying at the first sight of a tear. "There is a lot more to do in Heaven than just marry me. I'll give you the _best_ tour."

He chuckles, interlacing his fingers on Jaemin's nape. "I hope so. I didn't do all that for nothing."

Well, anyways — when Jaemin seals a kiss against his lips, Donghyuck knows to himself that there is nothing else he could do. The path that lead him here was incredibly rough, and God's last act of kindness ended it the moment he got to have Jaemin for himself, with no prediction of ever having to let go.

And they deserve it. Amongst life's trials and tribulations, Donghyuck sincerely believes that good people like them are deserving of a good ending, one worthy of peppermint tealights and dragged out epilogues, telling the tales of long nights when no one goes to bed and loud, clear singing that lasts until the sun is ready to rise again. Because that is nature in itself, and that is the reason behind the trees' laughter through their kind rustle, meaning that existence — and all that comes with it — is nothing but a gift, one Donghyuck has not been very grateful for in the past.

But to whomever it concerns, of course there was a marriage. And an angel den. And many, many sleepless nights, where Donghyuck sang his heart up until no sadness could fit in it, until none of his voice could be heard and Jaemin had to prepare multiple cups of honey and tea.

So what is existence? Existence is the swaying of hips and the coming together of hands. Existence is the tears and the snot and the blood, as much as it is the sun and the moon and the stars. Existence is not an unified system, but rather an individual experience, one that rarely ever exists without an equal to call a friend. Existence is both community and loneliness; joy and hurt; peace and war. Existence is… Kindness, not despite, but in spite of the abundance of violence. Existence is having the means to do harm, but choosing not to.

Donghyuck might have not before, but he knows that now.

**Author's Note:**

> i'm @jaemkitty on twitter in case you have a warrant. i actually Am religious so u might imagine the type of stress i was under while writing this lol. thank u for reading it!
> 
> i also have made some art for this fic, so in case u'd like a little bit of imagery, there u go: https://twitter.com/jaemkitty/status/1258133521950019585?s=19


End file.
